The New Yorker (Paul McCartney)
by emlovestowrite
Summary: When the 21-year-old New Yorker Harper Mooney is given the chance to interview The Beatles, the last thing she expected was to fall in love with one. But when she soon finds the oh-so-gorgeous Paul McCartney at her heels, in love with her carefree nature and dry sense of humor, everything is not what it seems. As the two embark on a relationship at the near peak of The Beatles' fam
1. Chapter 1

There was a lump at my throat the size of ten marbles as my feet pat against the hard wood floor in a rhythm.

_Pat-pat-pat PAT pat-pat-pat PAT. _

My heart pounding against my chest like I was about to be released into a lion's den. In reality, I was waiting nervously at Mr. Brian Epstein's office in London, England. _Yes,_ I did say Brian Epstein! The Brian Epstein who manages The_ Beatles, _aka, the most popular music group as of right now.  
It is early-1964 and I am here, 21 years old, waiting to INTERVIEW each of the Fab Four.  
Would you like to know why? I really can't wrap my head around it myself, but I will try for you.  
My name is Harper Jane Mooney and I'll start this off by saying that I am, in fact, an American. I moved to London from New York one year ago and immediately got a job at The Daily Mail. My boss Angie took me under her wing and grew to like me for my "originality" and "persuasiveness."

That's why, when everyone demanded to know about The Beatles' departure to America, she offered ME the job. I'm not going to lie, I initially rejected and told her to give the role to someone else in a state of fret. Can you imagine the pressure? Thousands-millions- of people would read my writing and take note of every little word I use... I didn't like the idea of all that attention being drawn to myself.  
Yet, here I am, awaiting the manager of The Beatles to lead me into a room full of the most famous boys in Britain.

There was a _hoard _of screaming girls and strings of photographers outside the building. The Beatles were _everyone's _favorite band, their tunes constantly playing on the stereo. "From Me to You," "Love Me Do," and "I Want to Hold Your Hand" among the many. My favorite tune, admittedly, was "Hold Me Tight" by Paul McCartney himself. But, of course, I wasn't alone in that boat. Basically any song Paul wrote his name on was everybody's favorite song.

That's when I begin to feel insecure. Maybe I should've worn something a little more sophisticated. I looked down at my navy dress with a frown. Is this too casual? I mean, I'm wearing a nice white jacket, but maybe I should've worn a nicer all together ensemble. Plus my blonde hair was just down in a braid. And my shoes, old Mary Jane's. Oh my _gooooooosh_, Angie, why?  
"Ms. Mooney?" Someone's male voice rung from the elevator doors in the midst of my existential crisis.  
Just like that I snapped out of my trance and out of my chair.

"Hello!" I yelped out loud, biting my lip right afterward, feeling a wee bit embarrassed at my blatant surprise.  
This made Mr. Epstein crack a smile as he strolled over to me in his nice ironed suit. He extended a hand and grinned at me. "Hello."  
I took it graciously, grinning back at him like it was school picture day. "It's so very nice to meet you."  
He nodded, slipping his hand back into his pocket. "You as well. So I understand you wish to discuss a few things with my men?"  
"Yes," I told him, pulling out my notepad and handing it over to him. "You can, um, look it over, I guess. I don't know... I'm terribly nervous."  
Mr. Epstein chuckled again, his eyes scanning over my scrawl. "You shouldn't be, love, the boys are good folk."  
"Oh, I'm sure," I rambled even further, biting my bottom lip and chewing it momentarily. "It's just, well, they're _The Beatles_." A nervous laugh escaped me as I shrugged at the man. How else could I phrase that?  
He handed me back my pad, a smirk on his face. "S'okay, Ms. Mooney, try to look at them more like a bunch of lucky lads rather than 'The Beatles,'" Mr. Epstein air-quoted. "Your questions look divine. I'm sure you'll get good answers."  
"I hope so."  
"Well, enough beating 'round the bush. Let me go introduce you, doll." He said, turning and beginning to waltz towards a big polished door.  
That's when I started to hyperventilate again, the reality of interviewing each of the Fab Four still manifesting in my mind. "Oh Lord."  
This is really happening! I turned around and began to pray to God for my success. A promotion from a mere editor to _supervising_ editor at the Mail was all leaning on this.

I'm not going to say I'm not a bit excited about this, of course I'm excited to sit down with them all. I haven't even told my family back home that I was here doing this. My sisters both idolize The Beatles. My younger, Lisa, being sixteen praised Paul for all that he was worth, while my older sister Karen loved George. I was neutral, never participating in their little games. Besides, it was only just a month before I moved out here that The Beatles seeped into American radio and seeped into their hearts. Bottom line, they'd both freak out if I shared with them this opportunity.  
I ran my hands down my dress a good twenty times before Mr. Epstein called out to me. "Ms. Mooney?"  
I spun around, my face red as I broke out in a nervous smile. "Sorry. I'm sorry."  
He grinned again. "Don't be so nervous. It's going to be okay."  
Then he opened the door.  
"Hey!" Mr. Epstein yelled out into the room. "Get ready, chaps, are you ready? The Daily Mail is here."  
That's when I tiptoed behind him daintily, peeking my head around the corner while my heart pounded wildly. _Holy._  
I hadn't been in the room fifteen seconds until someone had addressed me.

"Well, the Daily Mail is one pretty bird!" Shouted the iconic snarky voice of the man you could identify miles away, John Lennon. JOHN LENNON.  
"Oh," I broke out into a bashful grin, stepping into the room a little bit more. "Hello there, Mr. Lennon."

What else could I say when the swing-leader just called me pretty? What would you say? "Thanks"? I wasn't that self-confident.  
He grinned back at me, showing off his white grill. "The likes of you can call me John."  
"Quit it John, would you? She's not one of your broads." Ringo Starr interjected just then, rolling his eyes at John. He flashed a crooked smile in my direction.  
That's when I took in the he and the other three masterminds, strewn around the casual room.  
John scoffed loudly, itching his nose. His long pointed nose that the world has come to appreciate. Long legs were splayed out on a cushion before him, his head propped up by his crossed arms. John appeared so informal and simple for a man of his rank. Like a normal person and that had surprised me a little.  
George Harrison appeared a little less carefree than John, his hands interlocked in his lap. He appeared a little dorky at first glance, but once you looked at Mr. Harrison, he was an undeniably sexy man. My older sister always had a crush on him, like I blabbed. If I'd told her I'd be interviewing him, she'd have flown down to London in a heartbeat.  
He caught my glance and smiled a sweet closed smile. I think I liked him.  
"Hello," Mr. Harrison nodded his head at me. "What shall we call you?"  
"Oh! Uh," I gulped, peering down at my feet in embarrassment. "Um, you can call me, uh..." I had forgotten my own life in that moment, my nerves squashing my mind.  
There was a delighted laugh from the other side of the room. "Don't be so nervous, love, we won't bite."  
I already knew who it was by the light ring of his tone. I peeked back up at Paul McCartney who was looking at me with big eyes.  
"Harper." I blurted, blinking at him. "Harper Mooney."  
The heartthrob Brit smiled wider at my words. "Well, Harper Mooney, 'S pleasure to meet you." Paul stood up and actually strode over to me, extending a hand for me to shake.  
I went tomato red, the most crimson color, as I shook his hand in return.  
He chuckled.  
"Paul, you ain't wasting any time." John whistled and I almost toppled over. I have never felt so mortified in my life.  
"C'mon, guys, shut your gobs. Ms. Mooney here has some questions for you lads, don't do her any harm." Mr. Epstein warned them all, a smug look on his chiseled face.  
"Yeah." I shook my head, turning and facing all of them.  
"You're an American, aren't you?" Ringo asked me, eyebrows raised.  
"Uh," I stared at him for a moment before nodding. "I am."  
"We're just 'bout to set off to America, actually, yes." Paul told me, a glint in his eyes.  
It was probably his first time traveling overseas.  
"I've heard." I grinned at him, just happy enough as it was to be in the same room as he.  
He grinned back at me.  
"Ms. Mooney—"  
"Harper." I told Mr. Epstein who addressed me, walking over to another door and opening it.  
"Harper," He corrected himself, revealing a room with two black couches. "You can go right in here and set up."  
"See you in minute then, love." John winked at me as I obliged to Mr. Epstein's request.  
I blushed again and scurried into the room.  
"Blimey, John!" Paul chastised him as I shut the doors behind me.  
_"Blimey,"_ I giggled at that word. It's one of the many British term I've been exposed to and one of my favorites indeed. Even better hearing it out of Paul McCartney's trap.  
Quickly, I collapsed on the sofa and exhaled deeply. That was so nerve-racking! I thought something awful were to happen, like I'd start sneezing incessantly or, worse, pass out. It wasn't that bad, however. Quite alright.  
Okay. So. I need to focus, this was a big deal!  
I zipped open my satchel bag and pulled out my tape recorder. This was essential in my interviewing procedure. Plus my notepad.  
Angie suggested I take notes about key points the men ask in case something were to happen to the tape recording.  
In addition, I had equipped a camera which I would have to ask each of them if I could snap their mug.  
With a glance down at my questions, I felt prepared. I would do The Daily Mail and my boss Angie proud.  
Now I just wait to see which of the four lads were to come through the door first.  
I took the opportunity to take in the atmosphere around me. This _was_ Brian Epstein's official office here in London.  
His devotion to The Beatles was quite blatant, posters and plaques with the band's name on it covered the walls. It was very impressive, actually. I found myself gaping at a few of the titles: "Greatest Debut Record," "Original Song," "#1 UK Charts," "#1 US Charts."  
It was, in these moments that I was gaping at the many awards, that George Harrison joined me in the little room.  
"Pretty ace, huh?" He asked me from the door, causing me to spin over in surprise.  
"Uh," I spoke as his skinny frame strolled over to the couch. I stole a quick look back at the laden walls. "Do you ever think, I dunno," I glanced over to him, a question suddenly dawning on me. "'Wow, we are really making it big?'"  
George sat in the seat, a neutral look on his famous face. "Yes, indeed," He said and, just as he was about to continue onward, I held out a finger and grabbed my tape recorder.  
"I should get this on record!" I explained, clicking the big red button and holding it out. "Continue, if you would?"  
George grinned, leaning back in the sofa. His thick eyebrows arose.  
I had a sudden epiphany that I was here talking to a Beatle! I dunno how many times I could have this epiphany for it to finally settle in my mind.  
"Yes, of course it's odd to look at where I have ended up in this world. Shy of just about three and a half years since we've all started this, and now looking around, I can't believe we've evolved into _this._" He laughed rather incredulously, as if having his own epiphany that he's a Beatle himself.  
He held out a hand to me. "Look at meself right now! Talking to Harper Mooney of The Daily Mail, the paper I read with my father when I was only young."  
I laughed at the fact that he was in surprise talking to me! "I know how you feel."  
George rolled his eyes dramatically at me, understanding I was alluding to right now. "C'mon now, we aren't too bad. You oughta warm up to John, though, I'll tell you."  
"We'll all a little hard to warm up to," I mumbled, scribbling something down on my pad before asking him something else. "Tell me what your favorite part about being a Beatle is?"  
"Hm," George pondered momentarily. "Well, it's nice to be in a group with three other people who you get on with well. We're all going through this transition together and that's nice."

I nodded to the man. "You've been with at least John and Paul since you were a teen, right?"

"Yeah," He shook his head. "So that's good."

"Don't 'cha ever, I dunno, get tired of hanging with the same people over and over?" I mused, scribbling something down on my pad. "I mean, I lived with my hare-brained sisters and my overbearing mother for twenty years and I was about to off myself."

There was a silence in the air until I suddenly looked up, realizing what I had just asked him. Oh no! I've gone too far; gotten too personal. Did I offend him? Great, not even three minutes have passed and I already blew it in my work.

Despite my panic-crazed horror at the possibility that I might've pissed him off, George was actually _smiling. _He was amused with my words.

This prompted me to raise an eyebrow, confused. "What are you smiling about? I thought I'd just crossed the line." I continued to blab to him like he was a sure pal of mine. I dunno where this charge of energy sprouted from, exactly. But it seemed to be doing me some good seeing as George looked satisfied.

"You're just more enthralling than I pictured you to be. Yes, I surely get exhausted of being around them." George grinned widely at me.

"We must spend close to every moment together," Ringo murmured, slouching back in his chair and propping his legs up on the coffee table between the two of us. "If we go one place, we can't leave safely therefore we all must hide together in another place." He shrugged, crinkling his big nose. "Do you get me? Sure, they're my lads, but with that, they're also my partners. It's almost like we're all wed."

I laughed at that statement, ensuring my tape recorder got that as well and scribbling that line down.

Ringo laughed back at me. "Are you going to print this? Well, be sure to include that I mean that in the best respects." He threw me a wink.

I looked at him for a moment, taking in his dorky aura. He was an average looking fellow, not in the competition against Paul, but he was attractive for being this way.

I'd always had a soft spot for drummers as well, I think they're a vital instrument to any group, figuratively and literally speaking. My mother would crease her withering forehead and say the pianist was the most vital and continue to dive on into why she's the right one.

I thought Ringo's happy-go-lucky charisma and, of course, his drummer status made him a true bachelor. Take that, mother.

"How did you adjust to The Beatles being that you hadn't been a part of the group beforehand?" I continued to ask him, giggling off his last response.

Ringo crinkled his nose again which I concurred meant that he was contemplating the question. "Yes, Pete Best had preceded me, though I didn't see that as much of a barrier. The men recruited me and I very soon felt a part of the band. Sure, it was primarily Lennon-McCartney, but I was fine just sitting behind the drums."

"_How does it feel about to go to America?_ Well, it feels real fucking great." John chortled to me, squinting his eyes.

He was positioned with his body strewn out horizontally on the sofa, making himself the most comfortable of the two I've chatted with thus far.

At this point, it was safe to say I had warmed up to these people.

"Ssh, I can't put slurs in my article, you sailor!" I told him rather exaggeratedly, rolling my eyes as I scribbled down _Lennon- "feels great" _onto my yellow notepad.

John scoffed loudly for the second time in my presence, making his way as to stand up. "No slurs? Then I'm out of here!"

"Come back!" I smirked at his behind until John quickly swung back around and plopped onto the sofa once again.  
"Alright, alright, don't cry about it now." John winked, propping his head up with his arm against the cushion.

"You have a mouth on you," I laughed, making sure to include that detail. "You're the funny one, hm?"

"If that's what the lady says, I simply cannot defer." He said rather smugly and I realized that I needed to continue with the interview.

"Is it shocking to you to see how far your group has transpired?" I crossed my legs, tucking the pen behind my ear.

John nodded profusely. "'Course it is! Hearing your own tunes playing on the stereo is mind blowing to m'self. Looking out the window at all of these people and realizing they're here for me speaks for itself." He heaved another laugh and it made me snicker a little as well. "Put yourself in my shoes, wouldn't you be bloody mesmerized?"

"You are big shoes to fill, Mr. Lennon."

John grew a seductive look on his face at my words, knowing I meant figuratively, but making it playful. "I'd let you try on my shoes any day, _Ms. Mooney_."

My cheeks were still red from my conversation with John when the door opened up again. Looking at my notes, I hadn't hardly noticed that someone had walked in until they were already sitting across from me.  
"Did you get some good stories? I hope you still have room for me." Paul McCartney spoke before me.  
I jumped about ten feet in the air at his sudden voice. "Lord!" I gasped.  
Paul laughed, bending towards me. "You really did get some good stuff then."  
My cheeks burned up as I pointed at the tape recorded. "Probably a little too much stuff."  
He laughed again, looking at me with amusement in his eyes.  
Damn, Paul _is_ the most attractive Beatle.  
My little sister and her pals always giggled about how handsome they thought Paul was. I never really paid much attention to them, though I did think he was very dashing.  
He grinned at me and I found myself staring at him for a moment. What is happening?

I felt confident with the others but, sitting here across from Paul, I quickly fell weak. Like I was succumbing to his charming aura.

There was a silence as we two just looked at each other. Paul had this grin on his face that made me grin back at him before I bashfully looked to my lap.  
Talk about feeling self-concious.  
"So, um," I spoke up, holding the pad out in front of me to hide my flustered face. "Anyway..."  
I clicked the red button on the recorder and laid it on my lap, sitting up a little taller and showing my face again.

"Mr. McCartney," I addressed him, giving him a closed smile.  
Paul giggled at my newfound sense of authority. He leaned back into the couch cushion. "Yes?"  
"What is your favorite part of being a Beatle?" I had asked him the question hoping he'd have something different than "fun to be with my lads."  
And he had.

"Hm," Paul mumbled, scratching his chin. "I dunno, what's your favorite part of being a journalist?"  
"Getting a chance to show my best stuff to the people who want to read it." I shrugged, crossing my legs like it was nothing of me.  
Paul threw his hands in the air. "Couldn't have said it any better m'self! Being given the opportunity to show my stripes the way I wanna, it's something great, it is."  
I scribbled down "show my stripes the way I want to" on the pad, nodding.  
"How does it feel knowing you've changed the lives of many people in the world?" I continued to ask him, biting my lip.  
Paul itched along his eyebrow this time, squinting his slanted eyes. He looked like he didn't know how to answer what I was asking of him.  
"You're going to travel across seas to another country who is already enamored with your work," I told him as humbling as I could, the words I was speaking giving him every right to look at it in an anti-humble way.  
Though he indeed took it in the most casual form any man in his position could. "It's quite odd, I don't think I have accustomed to it yet."  
I couldn't help a little giggle from hitting the air.  
"Whut?" Paul asked me, his British accent as strong as ever, as he continued to itch along his eyebrow. "What are you snickering 'bout, now?" He probed, smiling.  
I shrugged at him, tucking some of my loose hairs behind my ear. "It's just a wee bit surprising to hear you speak like this, 'not yet accustomed to this lifestyle!'" My voice gained more volume as I raised my eyes at him. It was a little crazy, I'll say.  
Paul shrugged at me, his smile reaching his hazel colored eyes. "I just didn't ever think this would happen to me. To us."  
"You have me at that." I scrawled down Paul's exact words onto my pad, making sure not to leave a word out when he spoke.  
"You had me at hello, love."  
"Oh, please stop," I _'sshed'_ him in an act of courage. He was making me awful flushed and that was just stupid of me.  
Paul didn't remove the smile that was displayed on his face and he stretched his arms across to the back of the sofa. He almost looked content with himself.  
"Where are you from?" Paul asked as I fiddled with the tape recorder.  
"Mm," I mumbled, glancing up at him shortly. "New York, actually."  
Paul perked up in his seat, crossing his hands on his bent knees. "You're kidding. Don't ya know The Ed Sullivan Show?"  
I nodded at him, smiling a little bit. "'Course."  
"That's our first stop in America." Paul beamed, running a hand through his mop top. "I'm a bit nervous, actually."  
I made sure my tape recorder was capturing all of this.  
"Why?" I asked him, just honestly curious.  
Paul shrugged, leaning back in his seat again. "I dunno. What's America like?"  
His question made me giggle a little more.  
Paul smiled once again. "You snicker quite often, don't you, doll?"  
"It's quite alright, actually." I ignored his comment, scratching my leg. "New York, especially. There's a lot of people 'round, but they're all good company. You've got to try a hotdog, they're delicious. See Lady Liberty as well." I told him, a sudden wave of nostalgia coming over me. I broke out in a grin just thinking about it.  
"You seem to love it a real lot." He instigated, crossing his legs. "Why did you leave? What made you come to Britain, anyway?"  
I felt like the two of us were on a first date. The handsome Paul McCartney that millions of girls would KILL each other to meet, let alone interview. But I tried not to think of that, remembering what Mr. Epstein had told me.  
"Well," I sighed. "I haven't got a father, my mother was always talking about how successful my other sisters were, and I just wanted a change of scenery."  
"Why London?" He continued, looking rather interested in my words.  
"Why, everything is happening in London." I told him, matter of factly, with a smug look on my face.  
Paul stared at me with a glint in his eyes.  
"**Paul?** How's it going, you've been in there an awful long while?" Mr. Epstein's voice suddenly rung out from the room over.  
Oh no! I haven't finished asking him some questions!  
He noticed the fret in my eyes and leaned towards me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get off the topic," Paul said, glancing towards the door. "But I want to answer everything you have for me." He stated.  
I stared at him, awaiting for him to continue.  
"Do you, uh, have a telly I could ring you at tomorrow?" He offered me.  
The words stunned me.  
"You're serious?" I asked him, eyebrows raised. "Aren't you going off to America in a matter of days? Won't you be busy out of your mind?"  
"No," Paul said, grabbing my pad from my hand. "Besides, I'll make all the time for you." He ripped out a piece of paper and handed it back to me. "I heard this was for a promotion at your job."  
"Yeah."  
Paul handed me the paper real quick, quickly shifting and sitting beside me. He leaned over my body and swiped the pen from behind my ear. "Write down your information and I promise you'll get that promotion."  
I continued to gawk at him. I hadn't felt so surprised and fortunate since my landlord lowered my rent the first month after I had booked it here in the UK.  
First, it was crazy for me to even get to stand in the same room as the Fab Four, but now here Paul was (the most beloved by my generation of females), willingly saying he'd call me in his _busy _schedule in the midst of all this chaos for America.

"You really don't have to do so much, you're very busy right now anyway," I rambled to him, looking at him desperate. Knowing I was taking time away from his hectic life just to ask him which song was his favorite was nonsense.

I tried to express these beliefs of mine to him, but Paul was not having any of it.

"Harper," Paul said my name, making my heart skip a little. He gave me another one of those wooing grins. "I'm only twenty-one. I have my own life, don't you know? This is something I wanna do with my life, 's okay."  
It's something he wanted to do with his life?  
"Now, give me yer information," Paul thrusted the pad towards me.  
Having nothing else to say, I took the pen and scribbled my name down along with work and home phone numbers not knowing when he'd call and what hours would do me better.  
Paul looked it over for a moment before folding the yellow paper and tucking it into his dark colored pants.  
He grinned at me, his face inches away from mine. "Thanks."  
I blushed a little as Paul looked at me again for that day. He was making me feel like a school girl and it embarrassed me.  
Paul read my mind and chuckled. "I'll hear more of you tomorrow then, love."

I couldn't take it anymore. "Do you often refer to people as 'love'?" I asked him, eyebrows raised.

Paul seemed taken aback by this question as he raised both his distinctly arched eyebrows. He'd presumably _never _been questioned about the slang he uses towards women, anyway.

A laugh came out of me at his reaction as I shook my head, collecting all of my stuff together.

"No," He spoke up a few couple moments later. "Only people I'm interested in."

I widened my eyes as I was faced away from Paul. WHAT? I had to use every nerve in my body to resist a fangirl squeal as the fact that he just admitted to be interested in me manifested in my mind. Doesn't matter if he's a Beatle or not a Beatle, but that someone with male genitalia confessed to be 'interested in' made my heart speed up. I hadn't been flirted with since my secondary school days with old Teddy Denby.

At some point, I was forced to turn around to him as Paul had a placid smile on his face, watching me.

_Luckily, _Mr. Epstein interjected and saved me from this uncomfortable "what do I do" atmosphere. "Paul?"

"He's probably snogging with her!" John shouted followed by an ugly snicker.

I stood up in my place, calling back to him. "Yeah, sorry."

Mr. Epstein opened the door at my words, revealing a curious-looking John standing beside him.

"Aw, damn," John pouted, making a stink eye at us. "Bogus." He wandered off, out of view.

Wow, that man sure does have a lot to say.

I felt Paul stand up behind me. "Thanks, Brian, really."

Mr. Epstein ignored his client and gave me a warm smile. "Are you good?"

_As good as I'll ever be._

"Yeah, I'm pretty 'cited!" I smiled to him in return, running a hand down my white dress.

Paul's hand touched the small of my back. "She was until you done interrupt us." I could tell he was joking by the tone of voice, but Paul did seem a little passive aggressive about it.

My eyes widened as I pinched my wrist as to awake from a dream. A moment later I was still in Brian Epstein's office and Paul McCartney's hand was still on the small of my back.

"It's alright, really," I tried to reassure Mr. Epstein that I did indeed have a sufficient amount of material, with or without Paul's input. Of course I'd like to have a lot of Paul's input, though.

I realized it was probably time for me to leave as I gave Mr. Epstein a bow, acknowledging Paul and making me way towards the door.

We all filed into the main room and I took in each of the Beatle's appearances once again. A big grin arose on my face as they all looked in my direction. "Thanks, you guys," I motioned down to my material. "I promise to make this the greatest thing I'll ever write."

George was the first to respond, a wistful smile on his face. "Don't doubt that. It's been a pleasure, Harper."

Damn, I wish my recorder was still on so I could get that on tape and play it to my older sister.

The others chimed in their own regards as I looked at Mr. Epstein and shook his hand. "Thank you once again, you're really ace, you are."

He looked a little bashful at my words, chuckling them off. "Thank you as well, Ms. Mooney."

Before I made my way to the door and out of their turf, I quickly turned around and snuck a look at Paul.

I made a telephone sign with my hand and held it up to my ear, reminding him to give me a ring so I could finish.

Paul nodded in agreement, throwing me a playful wink. "Gotcha." He mouthed to me.

And I walked out of that office with a successful grin on my face, only hoping I had made some lasting impression on the Fab Four.

So when John Lennon shouted out "Good bye, pretty bird!" It gave me the inkling that I had.

;)


	2. Chapter 2

I won't deny the reality that I am sitting here on my couch with a bowl of cereal, watching Z Cars with my dog.  
It was 5:55 pm on February 5th, 1964, the day after I interviewed The Beatles.  
As I won't deny that I'm lounging around watching a cop show, I won't deny that I have been waiting all day for Paul McCartney to call me.  
That's a funny thing to say, isn't it? _Waiting for Paul McCartney to call me._  
I'm hoping I hadn't missed the call from him earlier today, that's what scares me the most. What if he tried and I didn't answer? There was no way of telling if and when someone has called you, so I don't know. I scribbled a good time to ring, but still. Maybe he tried and just gave up.  
Or maybe he's a Beatle who is about to depart to another chaotic continent and thus busy out of his noggin.  
I couldn't picture myself in his shoes; it couldn't happen.  
If there's anything I learned from talking to them all yesterday, it's that it's not easy to be a "rock star."  
I was sure to include a bit John had said about it, possibly making it the headline: "This all just preposterous. Like you, talking to a journalist, is preposterous. The fact that people actually want to hear what I have to say about your questions is preposterous. It's all bloody nuts and it's not easy. But I'd take it over any feeling in the world, I'll tell you that."  
That was the day that I truly understood what the word "preposterous" meant.  
Today in work was a situation. As soon as I walked into those wooden doors, everyone was heckling me.  
Even people whom I've never talked to in my entire life were asking me questions like I was their gal.  
I've never felt like all ear in the room was on me until this morning. I didn't particularly like it because, let's face it, I didn't take kindly to the limelight. Yet it was nice to be the one everyone wanted answers from.  
I told them all about what they looked like, who the tallest was and who sounded the most like their music. I told them what John Lennon had to say and described Ringo Starr's laugh. I clarified that Paul was as handsome in person as on the paper and the TV screen.  
It was all rather exciting, but I liked to keep the juicier details to myself.  
I allowed Angie entry into my room so she could talk to me about the information that I did get.  
I played the tapes for her with a huge smile planted on my face as I relived the experiences. I found myself laughing all over again at the things that made me laugh the first time.  
Angie was as well.  
"I like what Ringo had to say," She muttered, scrawling down something on a nearby piece of paper. "About the time they spent with each other, focus on his words for that."  
"Okay." I nodded profusely, writing down _RINGO- TIME WITH BOYS!_ on a blue sticky note. The same shade as the colour of his index ring he had on yesterday.  
_Sigh._  
Angie peeked up at me when I did this, a little smile on her face. "See, aren't you glad I handed you this chance?"  
My zealous eyes met her blue ones as I grinned at her in return. "Indeed."  
"Sounds like you had a rather good time with them." She alluded to all the giggling I was pouring out on the tape.  
My cheeks flushed a little bit before she said something that made them even redder.  
"Let's hear Paul's." Angie sped up the recording a little bit until the middle of when he said "some good stuff?"  
Angie went back a little bit and hit play. "Oop!"  
"Did you get some good stuff?" Paul's distinct voice asked as the door shut behind him.  
"Lord!" I shouted, remembering how much he had caught me off guard while reading George's answers.  
"Probably a little too much."  
He started laughing and I did too until there was that silence in between where we were both staring.  
I felt Angie's eyes look up at me, her eyebrows raised. "Hm."  
I refused to make her stare, embarrassed.  
The talking went on and she did write a few things down until Paul started asking me questions about myself.  
I was peeking at her through my peripheral vision and watched Angie gaze off into the distance, listening to the day-old tape.  
She smiled, averting her gaze to my face. "You two really hit it off, hm?"  
"No!" I shouted to her, biting my bottom lip. "It's not a big deal."  
Angie pointed to the recording while Paul had asked me why I moved to Britain. She arched her eyebrows. "He seems interested in you, I'll tell you that."  
Then Brian Epstein's voice rung out and that's when I stopped recording.  
"You got one little tidbit from him, Harper, so I suggest you try to expand that."  
"Well, actually," My mouth started moving for me as I prepared to tell her. I felt a flurry of uneasiness. Far too similar to the feelings I experienced when I asked my older sister to borrow her light pink chiffon shirt for annual photo day. They always were the stickiest situations.  
"We aren't done yet. He insisted in ringing me sometime today to actually answer questions."  
Her jaw—the jaw that's said a lot of things—dropped as she manifested the idea. "You're serious?"  
"Yeah, it's crazy, I know." I said to her, twiddling my thumbs as I tried to think of how to speak. "He insisted, Angie, I tried to decline."  
There was a silence in the air as she continued to stare at me with her mouth dropped.  
It was a lot to take in. Who would've ever thought Paul McCartney would go above and beyond to have a few more words for me, a stupid journalist?  
Angie blinked her brown eyes, her heavy-coated eyelashes clumping. "Wow, Harper." Just then, she grew a grin at on her face. "Will he call you at work? Could I have a chat with him?"  
"I dunno. I circled my home telephone and wrote 'after 5' so he'll possibly ring that one."  
Angie whacked me in the shoulder, laughing loudly. "It's like a second date!"  
"Ah, shaddup, Angie!" I blushed at her, a little smile finding its way around my lips.  
Curse myself for being so bashful.  
So, after a long day of deciphering what all of the boys had told me in their thick accents, I waited.  
My dog Clyde stood up from beside me, hopping off the sofa. His nails make a _clink, clink, clink_ noise on the hardwood floor.  
"Boy?" I asked him as I soon heard the sound of him slurping up some water from his doggy bowl.  
A big sigh rolled out of me as I threw my head back on the cushion. My life is so boring, I have nothing going for me except my job and my monthly book club. And, of course, Clyde.  
My life has always been kind of like this, never having too many friends and hardly anything to do.  
I went on a lot of walks, I guess. I wasn't really big on music or filmography, but I did like to read.  
I know I sound utterly boring, but I promise I'm not! I get to go on a lot of trips for my job at The Mail, so I travel a lot. And plus, I got to meet The Beatles! And am awaiting a phone call with one of them who seems to care that much about me! Not like I'm saying _anything _romantic or lame like that, but it's pretty exciting.  
Speaking of romantic, I actually have been in a relationship in the past.  
Well, when I was just little, there was a boy named Teddy Denby who I took pottery course with. He was my first kiss and that was real fun.  
Then there was this boy Sam who I went steady with in my final year of school.  
I guess that was about it.  
I blinked back to reality when the credits from the rerun of Z Cars started rolling, accompanied by some action music. I turned off the television and glanced over at the clock. _6:05._  
Eh, well, I'm just going to go take a quick shower. I feel like the contents of a vacuum cleaner and that was never a great feeling.  
Though, when I stood, all I wanted to do was immediately sit back down again. _What if Paul rung me when I was in the shower?_ That would stink almost as much as I did!  
I glanced at the clock again: 6:06.  
Well, I'll just pop in and out. Nothing too big, I didn't have to shave or anything.  
This prompted me to peek down at my legs. _Naahh,_ I could go another shower without taking a razor to them.  
I made the ultimate decision that I'd just take a quick douse and be right back out to wait by the phone until I fall asleep.  
Clyde was still sitting by his food and water bowl, eating the contents that he had spilled on the floor as I walked by. He looked up at me guiltily as I wagged a finger at him. "You silly boy."  
Clyde was my pet growing up in New York, my ultimate confidant and my shoulder to cry on.  
He was also a wire-haired Terrier, though.  
My bathroom was small and blue, but it was charming all the same.  
I thought about my home in the States, which was rather big. My mother had a wealthy upbringing and still had a lot of money when she had me. It was nice to live in a place like we did, except our neighbors sucked.  
They were all high-rise posh-twads who hated the slightest bit of noise. They also hated Clyde, the only dog on the street. I got him when I was around thirteen with my own allowance, and whenever I'd take him on walks, all their broody faces would glower at him.  
It was another reason why I, not only decided to get out of their neighborhood, but get out of the country!  
I cranked the rusty metallic shower lever to about mid-way between hot and cold. Knowing it takes a solid minute for the water to grow warm from Titanic temperature, I took the liberty to look at myself in the mirror.  
My favorite features that I had on my entire body were my eyes and my eyebrows shielding them an inch upward.  
My eyes were green, shots of a yellowish-gold streaking through the centre with some mint sprig colour in there as well. It was one of the few qualities my mother enjoyed of me, for both of my sisters and herself had brown eyes. I was also the only one with blonde locks. My older sister and her friends used to mock me and tell me that I was adopted, but it was my father. My mother confided in me that he had both green eyes and blond hair. She said he was rather handsome, but that was where she drew the line.  
I don't know why he left us or where he's gone to. All I know is that he is gone.  
And then my eyebrows, a few shades darker than my blonde hair, were thick. That was the only compliment I recall Lisa giving me, that she thought my eyebrows were beautiful.  
So, clinging tightly to the nicest thing I've heard from her mouth, I pride in my eyebrows.  
Though my nose was long and ended quickly, plus I had barely any cartilage in there. You could twist it about and squeeze it like it was a piece of rubber.  
My lips were fine, I guess, rather thin. I didn't think myself to be the greatest kisser since it seemed like there was nothing to kiss, but oh well.  
I stood at a whopping 5"5 which I wasn't too proud of. Seeing as my siblings were all 5"5 when they were fifteen, it made me look like a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz. Another claim to add to the conspiracy that I was adopted, but I swear on my birth certificate, I was a true Mooney.  
I took my brown leather wristwatch off, one of my most prized possessions, and slid off my attire as well.  
When it had been about a minute of scrutinizing myself in the mirror, I hopped under the running water and was instantly pleasured.  
It was still cold, but the essence of warmth leveled it out as a loopy smile came on my face.  
Some days I didn't like to take showers because I thought of how time consuming they were. But showers were the ultimate breath of fresh air when you let them into your lungs.  
I positioned myself on the slightly-shorter shower head, which was foolish enough as it was with myself being 5"5. Suppose it was a kids shower, it was.  
I felt harmony in letting the water roll down my face in little streams, taking away all of the nasty with it. All of the oil that had accumulated on my head today.  
Then, I squeezed a dollop of shampoo in my hand before attacking my mop and filling it with suds.  
I hated shampoo and wanted it gone right away. It always got in my eyes when I was a kid and it had hurt so much. Now I realize I could've just shielded my eyes from the stuff, but I still held a grudge against it.  
It also boggled my mind, how could a gooey mixture like that form bubbles all about your hair? I wasn't about to start questioning the laws of physics, but it was an odd situation.  
I quickly washed it out of my mop and watched the white trails of bubbles slide down my belly with currents of water. Good riddance!  
I wiped up wherever else I needed to wipe up and prepared to squeeze out a thing or two of conditioner. I like conditioner much more, I do. It's silky and has a form to it, plus the name is pleasing: "conditioner." At least it beat "shampoo," which has the word "poo" in it. That one speaks for itself.  
I had my hands around the pink bottle, the water continuing to make me feel of pure bliss, when _the phone started to ring._  
I had to stop everything I was doing for a moment and wait for another five seconds for the _CLIIING _to reverberate again.  
And it did.  
"**Shit!**" I shouted out loud, hastily flipping off the running water and hopping out of the shower.  
I grabbed a towel, dripping wet like mad, and raced out of the bathroom.  
This couldn't be happening to me right now, he couldn't possibly be ringing the one moment I'm away from the phone.  
I had to use the walls as a guardrail and I hurried to the ringing telephone, making sure I didn't slip and twist my ankle.  
But I remained unscathed as I lurched myself on top of the couch. I was cursing every slur under the sun, panting, before grabbing the phone off the receiver and clearing my voice: "Hello?"  
"Hullo?"  
Instantly, I began to grin, clenching my fists at the surreal reality! It was him!  
"Is this Harper?" Paul asked me, his voice sounding a little more muffled over the telephone. Despite of that, he still sounded upbeat.  
"Is this Paul?" I asked right back to him, throwing my hands up and waving them about in the air. _Eep!_  
Paul gave a laugh, his voice growing in amusement. "I think so."  
"That's funny, I think this is Harper as well. I just don't know, actually."  
"Hm," He muttered from the other line. "Well, what hair colour do you have?"  
My grin grew in size, if that was even humanly possible. You could probably see all of my grill right back to my molars.  
"Blonde, it's rather short."  
"That sounds right. Where are you from?" Paul continued on, his voice still sounding pleased.  
I bit my lip, crossing my wet legs together. "Funny thing, actually, I'm from New York."  
"Ahh," Paul laughed on the other line. "I think you are Harper indeed."  
I laughed back at him, my eyes widening as I looked back on what we had just done there. "Well that's good."  
"Yeah, it is." He said, the noise of a chair leaning backward sounding in the foreground.  
"So, Mr. McCartney," I peeked down at the puddle I had made with my feet. I could feel the damp cushion beneath my bum. "—I'm going to have to put you down for a moment." I told him truthfully, realizing that I couldn't get work done feeling like a mermaid.  
Paul seemed unfazed by my words. "Sure, just don't hang up on me."  
My smile reformed a little bit at his words as I muttered a "be right back" and laid the telephone down against the table.  
I found myself staring at it for a moment, the idea that Paul was sitting there on the other line blowing my mind.  
Those eyebrows of mine flew upward as I began to dry myself off with the bits of the towel that wasn't soaked.  
As quickly as I could, I wrapped my hair up with a towel and slipped on a robe.  
With a quick trip to my bedroom to fetch my notebook and a pen, I scurried back to the phone in the living room.  
"Sorry," I muttered, holding it up to my ear again, hoping he was still on the line.  
To my pleasure he was, Paul's cheerful voice speaking again. "Did I get you in the middle of something? I'm sorry that I couldn't ring sooner, I really am." He threw in that last bit in a rushed voice, blatantly showing that he was embarrassed.  
I clenched my hand on my heart for a moment then, making doe-eyes. "No, please don't fret over it! I'm all good, I'm all yours."  
Paul made a giggle, his voice growing in highness as he muttered his words. "Good."  
I used every bone in my body to keep from making a squealing noise at his subtle little comment.  
Jeez.  
With my worn yellow pad in hand, I peeked down at my chicken scrawl and prepared to ask him a question.  
What's it like to be a Beatle? No.  
Are you surprised with your newfound fame? Nay.  
What's your favorite song that you've ever produced? Not yet.  
"What's your favorite color?"  
There was a silence on the other line following my anti-climactic question. I didn't think that he was expecting to hear that kind of question from me.  
"Ah, um," Paul wondered quizzically, making noise like he was squishing about in the chair he was seated in. "Well, I'd say blue."  
_Blue?!_ His favorite color was blue? I snorted.  
Paul didn't let me get away with it. "What is it?"  
"Eh," I shrugged before realizing that he couldn't see me. "I just expected you to say some kind of outlandish colour like marmalade or aubergine." I mumbled, on the cusp of laughter.  
Paul did the honors.  
"What?" His perfect little man voice said in a tone higher than his norm. He had began to laugh the kind of laugh that said 'what are you talking about?'  
"_Aubergine?_ I don't even... I'm sorry blue doesn't fit yer standards!" Paul continued to giggle like a schoolboy.  
I couldn't get enough of it.  
"C'mon, you should be honored I pegged you at Mr. Creative!" I defended myself, twiddling my thumbs in my lap with all this newfound energy.  
"Well, in his free time, Mr. Creative also likes the colour blue!"  
I have never heard someone speak in such an authentic British accent. In fact, I couldn't really interpret what he was saying for the most part and that was the best part.  
Laughing, my fountain pen scribbled down everything I needed to know from this conversation so far.  
"So, you have a brother?"  
"Yus."  
"Tell me about your brother."  
"His name's Michael; about two years younger than I. I love him quite a bit, 'twas nice growing up with a sibling in the house."  
I made another snorting noise and evaluated how sassy I was being today. Rather sassy indeed.  
"Can't really say the same, can you?" Paul snickered from the sideline again, sounding like he was actually amused with the things that we were saying to each other.  
Just the way he sounded when he talked to me made me feel like I was doing something right. And that was quite nice to feel because it only happens once in a blue moon.  
I went back to his question. MY siblings? Was it nice to grow up with MY siblings?  
Funny.  
"I dunno, when my sisters weren't pulling evil pranks on me and making me feel like there was a piece of toilet paper stuck to my bum, home life was swell."  
I heard him laugh under his breath as repositioned himself in his chair once again. Just by the squeaking noise, I could tell it was leather.  
"C'mon, it couldn't have been that bad. If I'm Mr. Creative, then your Ms. Dramatic!" He added the last part, sounding proud of himself.  
"Fine," I continued with the whole 'dramatic' label and poured out a big long sigh. "We're even. Now stop distracting me from this interview, Mr. Creative."  
"Says the professional journalist." He added as I could almost feel the smug look arise on his face.  
I rolled my eyes before, again realizing that he indeed could not see me. "Whatever, you Liverpudlian. What's your zodiac sign?"  
"Eh, Gemini, I think."  
"Ah," I scrawled down the little information. "Clever and imaginative?"  
"Yes, wow, are you also one?" Paul asked, surprised by my knowledge.  
"No, I just read all of the daily horoscopes from the paper when I'm waiting for my stuff to manufacture." I told him rather candidly. _Capricorn._  
His voice suddenly sounded rather seductive. Or maybe at this point, the English accent was making it hard to tell what tone he was trying to set.  
"When is your birthday, anyway?" Paul inquired.  
Jeez, how come I haven't developed an accent yet? I bet I'd sound totally great.  
It's probably one of the main reasons why people even like The Beatles. It's just, their voices—singing or not singing—are so damned sexy. It was simply a British thing.  
Then I rerouted back to reality. "December 28th."  
"Ah, just after Christmas?"  
I adjusted myself on the sofa so that my legs could splay out on the cushions before me. "Yes, it's terrible. Especially since my younger sister's birthday is exactly one month later and so my mother decided to throw us joint birthdays in between."  
Paul made a "HAH" sound as I continued.  
"You know how hard it is to have a birthday one month after your actual birthday? What's even worse is that there is approximately a five year age gap between us." I groaned just thinking about my tainted youth. "Can you imagine turning ten and spending your birthday party with a whole load of five-year-olds?"  
He laughed a little louder, clearly amused by my words as I smiled too. This is so embarrassing, why was even telling him?  
I really need to get out more.  
I addressed the elephant in the room after a break in interaction. "'S not even like she was doing it to save money!" I threw my free hand up in the air as to send a 'what the hell' signal to my mother in the states. "She was just that lazy!"  
"Why haven't you written a memoir yet?" He asked, his sweet voice laced with sarcasm.  
Paul's comment made me laugh myself. "I dunno, would you read it?"  
"Most definitely."  
The way his words sounded indefinite made me stop for a moment. Not only did he sound sure of himself, he sounded _just _like himself.  
The smug parade that was sashaying gallantly across my chest had stopped.  
I cleared my throat the way I did when I was preparing to address my younger sister during her time of the month. "Which song are you most proud of?"  
There was a small delay over the phone which I assumed was Paul readjusting to my change in aura.  
This was all too good to be true, I shouldn't act like this won't just end at some point. I was trying to think practically... I think.  
"Oh, well, which album?" He mustered a weak laugh as to try to lighten the mood.  
"Eh, I dunno, 'With The Beatles'?"  
Paul made a popping noise with his mouth and I resisted a cringe.  
I'm sorry, I hate when people do that with their mouths. Really anything weird with mouths just didn't sit well with me.  
I guess this dislike was actually represented as the culprit seemed to notice.  
"Whut're you doing?"  
"Huh?"  
Paul did it again. "You made a little sound, you did."  
"Agh, did you hear that?" I could feel myself losing my professional edge.  
He continued to pop his lips like he knew that's what was bothering me. "Yes."  
"Stop makin' that sound." I muttered under my breath, leaving it to chance if he could interpret it or not.  
But if he could hear my mere grunt, he could hear my complaint.  
"Oh, I'm sorry, am I making a noise?" Paul did it again as I could practically feel a smirk grow on his handsome face.  
A straight line replaced my mouth. "Yes, actually, you are making a noise."  
_POP!_  
"That!" I shouted. "That right there. Stop that."  
Paul, once again, seemed amused with himself in the midst of our conversation.  
It surprised me how much I seemed to carry on with a Beatle due to my lack of social skills. I could've used this lip when I was in school.  
"Whut's wrong with it?" Paul said, his voice tainted with laughter over the muffled telephone.  
I grabbed the cord attached to the ringer and twirled my fingers around in it. "I dunno, it just makes my skin crawl. Is that _okay with you_?"  
"Okay, m'sorry." Paul said.  
"Thank you."  
_Pop._  
"Paul!"  
"Now I'll stop!" He started laughing and, I'll admit, I started to laugh too.  
"Anything weird like that just, _eugh_, I don't like it."  
He laughed some more. "You wouldn't last a day around John."  
Not like I would even get that opportunity."Sounds like FUN."  
Then I peeked down at my piece of paper and realized I hadn't gotten an answer from him. "What was your favorite song, you bum?"  
"Alright, ah," Paul sounded as if he were repositioning himself in his seat, letting out a big exhale. "Probably 'Hold Me Tight,' I guess."  
_GASP!_  
"That's my favorite too!"  
He suddenly sounded very interested. "It is, you really like it? Why is it?"  
Ah, this was embarrassing. I started to blush a little bit as I stumbled over my words.  
I couldn't say "because it makes me feel like you—a male—actually wants me." You've gotta admit, that song really makes you swoon.  
I remember the first time I heard it, my sister was playing it on her record player as I was walking down the coral halls of my house.  
I had stopped in my tracks and craned my neck around towards the sound of his sweet voice. "Who is that?"  
"Hm?" Lisa mumbled absentmindedly. She was lying on the floor with her head up towards the ceiling, her chestnut locks splayed around her. "Paul McCartney, of course."  
I remember being surprised at her simple answer. None of that 'do you live under a rock?' shit I usually earned. "The Beatles then?"  
"Yes, Harper, The Beatles." There came the raging sarcasm.  
"Harper?" A different—better—voice called my name as I switched back into current day.  
I clenched the yellow telephone fiercely in my hand. The man I stopped everything in my life to listen to, was speaking to me now. And calling my name.  
It would be so amusing for me to confess all of this to my family. Once they hear about the article (which they would since my mother somehow gets all of them, the only caring thing she's ever done for me), I cannot even fathom what they'll do. Probably curse me out for not giving them the opportunity to meet them all.  
"Oh!" I yelped after resurfacing from my trance again. "Sorry, just thinking."  
"So, why is it your favorite?"  
I took this situation into my own hands, forming my own devilish smirk. "Why are you so curious, hm?"  
"Oh," I expected Paul to stumble over his own words, but he handed me an answer effortlessly. "Because I'm fascinated by the idea."  
"Hm?"  
He laughed a little once more, his voice inclining in volume again tonight. "I dunno, the fact that your favorite song is one that I wrote and sang is great. I want to know why."  
His honestly made my stomach hatch butterflies. These fucking subtle flirts were driving me nuts.  
I decided to be as candid with him.  
"Well, because that song makes me feel like you're singing it just to me and thus causes me to feel like a man out there wants to hold me tight!" I told him, starting slowly until the speed of my voice began to increase until 'hold me tight' became one word. "You're not a woman! You don't understand."  
There was a pause on the other line that I couldn't comprehend myself.  
It was probably Paul trying to register what I had just spilled to him like he was a diary intermingled with what he would respond with. I don't know much about the male mind, to be frank.  
The silence was soon broken by his voice again. "That's wonderful."  
"It is?" I asked uneasily.  
"Of course!" Paul shouted out.  
I tangled the phone cord into a knot.  
"That's what I wanted to hear you say."  
I half-smiled, working to untangle it. "Good."  
He laughed a little more, presumably replaying my words in his head as we both sat there through a telephone.  
Then I remembered my place.  
"Okay, well, since I just squealed to you like a schoolgirl," I sat up in my chair, my eyes roaming the chicken scrawl before me. "You owe me another answer! Uh...how about your favorite memory?"  
"My favorite memory?" Paul asked me like I was nuts.  
"Heh, I know, loaded question?"  
"Well, there's lots." He murmured, clearly trying to decipher something in his mind.  
I allowed him a few moments to think of something to say. There must be a lot he could be sifting through in his mind.  
"Well, this one time," He began to speak as I quickly grabbed the pen nestled in my lap. "We were somewhere, I don't recall where, and there were several items of merchandise for The Beatles. Most profound were these mop top wigs that were scattered about that didn't really look anything like our hair." He laughed, giving me a moment to write all of that down.  
I grinned, having him down word for word as I repeated the sentence over and over in my mind. "Yes?"  
"So Brian, our manager, suddenly grabs one of these wigs and throws it on his head. It was rather hilarious since Brian truthfully never acts so silly, especially in a business situation. So when he started giggling with this black thing on his head, it was rather great." Paul started to giggle. "Ringo actually got a photograph of it, he did. Real hilarious."  
The way Paul said it like it was one of the most reflective memories made it even greater. The memories that made you beam to your heart's content were the best kind, the contagious kind.  
I made sure to capture it exactly as Paul had put it and hoped to enrapture it well in the article.  
"That's so cute." I mused, finishing the quote, scribbling down "McCartney" to conclude it.  
"Yeah." Paul agreed, that undeniable beam working its way into his voice.  
Suddenly, he shouted out. "WAIT! There's something else."  
My alarm expressed itself in my speech as well. "What is it?!" I shouted back, holding the phone away from my ear for a moment.  
Jeez, this better be good.  
"Ah," Paul mumbled, making that popping noise again.  
I pretended that I couldn't hear it.  
"What was it, something about John, it was."  
Well great, how helpful.  
I made a "hmph" sound which made him rebut even quicker.  
"No, wait, hold on." Paul stretched his words longer, like he was trying to find the right thing to say. "It's real good, probably better than the Brian thing. John and I were composing a tune and, agh, I dunno!" His voice temperament sounded a little less impeding than his words.  
I remained unimpressed.  
He remained persistent. "Harper, wait, it's real funny."  
I sighed, nodding my head. "I'm sure it is."  
"Wait, ah, listen," Paul said at last, sounding rather defeated. "Why don't I just talk it over with John and call you back with it?"  
Holy shit!  
"It'll be worth the wait! Headline worthy!" Paul sounded rather desperate and that's when I put the pieces together.  
WAS HE MAKING UP EXCUSES TO CALL ME AGAIN? He already had an answer to my question, why would he even bother this much to just give another one? To the same question?  
All of the sudden, my toes clenched as my stomach exploded in butterflies, my cheeks red as lava and my mouth as wide as the sun.  
"Okay!" I yelped into the phone, taking that opportunity any day of the week.  
_Wow!_  
Paul seemed just as pleased as I did. "Great! Good." He repeated a couple times more, sounding content with himself.  
With this newfound wave of excitement, I peeked down at my questions to see I only had one or two left, if at all. I really just asked Paul the equivalency of the others, so...  
But a few more wouldn't hurt! I'll save them for our next convo!  
Paul got this vibe as he seemed to settle with himself as well.  
"Whut've you been doing?" He asked me as I began to pack all of my stuff together.  
Then I set it all on the ground and stretched my body out across the cushion as much as I could.  
"Ahhhh," I sighed, slumping back into a ball. "Went to work today and only began to start deciphering what the lot of you said on that tape! You're accents are so wonderful, yet at the same time, they're quite impossible."  
"Really, now?" Paul countered back to me. "I think you're the one with the weird accent!"  
I snorted at him. "Because I don't pronounce garage like '_gayridge'_?"  
He started to laugh loudly, more of a mocking laugh than anything. "S'not how we speak! You Americans say it like 'garaaaaadge!' _That's_ weird!"  
Look at little Paul sticking up for his country and their tongue. It was so cute.  
I began to twirl the telephone cord around my finger again. "Whatever, I'm _not_ going to argue with you!"  
"That's right you won't, you little bugger."  
_Bugger._  
"What have you been doing today? Are you guys awful busy?"  
Paul's laughter churned into a sigh as that leather chair squeaked again. "Yeah, we have been. Basically just listening to people tell us what we can and cannot do. When we do things, how we need to act, what we're going to see. Y'know."  
No, actually, I don't know. I've never been on tour!  
"Well, are you getting a little excited? That's another country!"  
His lackluster persona turned itself around again as he gave me a hearty thumbs-up. "'Course! It's going to be bloody crazy! Real great, it is."  
America was surely different than Britain. First off, the driving was worlds different. Definitely something you have to adjust to.  
(I can't tell you how many fender-benders I've gotten myself into my first year in this place!)  
The buildings weren't so nice and cute or anything like that, but really depends where you're headed.  
The people are loads different; they curse and shout and scare you. The people here are intimidating, but the people in America have _balls_ on them.  
"You're going to have a blast!" I told him, grinning at the mental Venn diagram I've just created of the two continents. "The people love you over there, so it'll be just fine. I'm sure of it."  
"You are?"  
"Yes, Paul!" I yelled, trying to reassure him.  
It caused Clyde to tiptoe on over here, looking irate.  
"It'll be the time of your life." I winked at my dog who then spun around and strutted away gallantly. I started to laugh because of it.  
"You laugh a lot, don't you?" Paul asked me over the shakiness of the phone.  
He caught my attention again as I snapped my reality back over to the telephone. "Oh, it's just my little dog!"  
That seemed to spark his interest a little."You have a dog?"  
"Yes, his name is Clyde."  
"Clyde?" Paul asked, his voice tainted with curiosity. "Whatta bout Bonnie?"  
I knew he'd ask that question!  
I started to laugh even louder than before, which prompted Paul to let out a giggle as well.  
"She's back in the states somewhere. Ah, you shoulda seen her, Paul. Clyde over here was so cute while Bonnie was like demon dog." I shook my head, thinking back to her. "No, she was more snooty than anything. Looked to have no interest in being adopted."  
"Nice excuse, Harper." He spoke with a tinge of smug in his voice.  
My eyes rolled to the back of my head. "Whatta bout you, do you have any pets?"  
Paul didn't seem too smug about this one. "No," He sighed, sounding bummed. "I've always wanted one, but even growing up, we hadn't ever had a house dog."  
"I got Clyde when I was a teenager, so I know what you mean."  
"Yeah, see."  
"Well, you oughta get one now!" I proposed, sounding zealous.  
"Ah," Paul sounded as if he were brushing dust off his shoulder. "I dunno. I suppose, but not right now anyway."  
I rose my hand up to my hair under the towel to find that it was completely and utterly dry. _Jeez! _Then I quickly hopped up out of my seat to gape down at the mostly-dry cushion below me.  
_How long has it been?_  
That's when I sprouted the clever idea to glance over at the clock, my eyes wide as apples. _7:03?! _Wow, I surprised myself at how much time I'd been sitting here talking to Paul McCartney.  
This is weird, I've already taken up an hour of the most famous chap's time! I should stop, right?  
"Paul," I began to speak his name, my voice steady.  
"Harper," Paul mimicked me and that's when I realized that he didn't want this all to end.  
I opened my mouth to speak, but found no words to form. So I just gave a wide grin instead.  
"Do you watch the program _Z Cars_?"

***

_Click, click, click!_ Agh.  
"Clyde!" I shouted out to my little dog who had been so noisy as to wake me up completely. "Ssh!" I went to shush him like he was a human who could understand such notions.  
The clock beside my bed lit up at 9:30 am. I had to be at work at 10 am. That's when I threw my head back. _Why did I sleep in so late?_  
Sluggishly, I arose from my position on the bed and made my way over to the bathroom to brush my teeth and comb my hair.  
I stopped before the mirror, picking up my toothbrush and got so far as to squeeze a dollop of toothpaste on it when the reality dawned on me. I nearly dropped the toothbrush.  
_I'd been talking with Paul until 9:30 pm! _That's about a combined total of four and a half hours!  
I stared at myself in the mirror, wide-eyed. Then I remembered what we transitioned into chatting about for hours.  
George liked to watch the show Z Cars which started a conversation about George which transpired into a conversation to my sister Karen who loves George which turned into how George and Paul met which then was about how Ringo joined The Beatles to all of the name changes to my favorite name, back to why "Hold Me Tight" was my favorite tune and the other bands we both enjoyed. Until I guess at 9:30, I had started to fall asleep and thus ended our extensive phone conversation with Paul telling me he'd ring me today about the whole John situation.  
Looking back, I can surely say that was the longest phone call I'd had with anyone since my best friend Lottie when we were ten. And the fact that it was Paul McCartney who'd listened to me ramble as I'd listen to him ramble was a whole separate can of worms.  
The stereotypical girl inside of me was eeking for joy that, not only did I converse with a male for _that _long, I spoke to the dreamy Beatle frontrunner that I'm sure the nation would love to talk with!  
I squeezed both of my fists together and allowed myself one obnoxious **_"SQUEE!"_**  
This is one for the books, that's for certain.  
Then I brushed my teeth, my hair, and continued to prepare for another day ahead of me, I guess.

**A/N:**  
**Hey! Do you guys like this one as well? I hope you do, it took me a while to write it all! I've been writing tidbits of exciting romantic moments to come and cannot wait to get there yet! STAY TUNED! I promise it'll rock all of your imaginations crazy. :) **


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting beside all of these other suits, I felt so out of place. They were all sitting in the most polished postures, their hands draped over their laps in the utmost professional way. I had my knees crossed as I bounced my leg up and down casually.

This was while listening to Angie brief the office about the importance of this next daily paper (one that was irrelevant to my work).

It's true, I was working on that huge Beatles story, but that wouldn't be ready by this upcoming few days. At least not while I'm still awaiting yet another follow up call from Paul. Not that it was dire and I have nothing but bone for his column, but I'm trying to use that to justify all of these phone calls we were having. By "all of these," I mean one. And I guess two, if you'd count the one we'd have today.

"Can we confirm that the Sports colomn..." Blah blah blah.

My eyes watched the sea of people whom of which I didn't even know a quarter of. I don't think they know m'self either, except maybe they do since this article was bringing my name into their cubicles.

Regardless, I didn't care about any of this or any of these people. So I allowed my bum to slide down the edge of the chair, the row of men and women before me becoming skyscrapers from down here.

All but Cherry Patterson, one of my co-workers, who was sitting right beside me.

She glanced at me and rose a red eyebrow. "Whut're you doing?" Her accent shined bright like a crystal.

She was another one with a native tongue to England. Hers I liked quite much actually, it was cute. I dunno why, but I found it lovely. If I were to have an English accent, I hope my voice would miraculously transform into hers.

But I don't. I'm quite possibly the only one in the office (of the 1/4 people whom I knew) and probably all of London that is American.

Upon first meeting, people commonly ask me where I'm from. Ringo did anyway.

"This is boring." I spoke back to her, shutting my eyes momentarily and breaking out in a faux snore.

She had to whack me on the leg to get me to stop, which only prompted me to giggle.  
"Harper! Don't let Angie hear you." Cherry hissed through the corner of her mouth, her eyes lying straight ahead. Angie's voice continued to drone onward.

Cherry tucked some of her hair behind her ear, a little smile struggling to keep it's way off her face.

Her name wasn't actually Cherry, but if you took a glance at that hair, there was no denying that was the perfect name for her. Besides, her actual name was Margaret. Do you actually expect me to call her Margaret? _Ack._

Suddenly, the change in Angie's tone from the front caught my attention.

"Okay, thank you all for the hard work." She clapped her hands together as everyone began to get up and pile out of the office room.

That's when I glanced over at the clock which was now in full view: 11.56 am. Noon was lunch!

A smile crept onto my face as I followed Cherry out of the rows of chairs, one of the last to do so. See, I knew I wasn't the only one who thought these weekly meetings were an absolute drag!

Cherry turned and spoke to me over her shoulder. "Want to grab some food?"

"Okay." I spoke, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible. I knew that Susan would be there and I didn't really like Susan too much.

She and Cherry co-owned a mail box in the office, so those two became pretty good friends. And they always had lunch together.

"Thanka Angie!" I waved to my boss who was stacking papers at the front, looking as dapper as ever.

She glanced up and gave an acknowledging nod of her head. "Have a nice lunch."

My white kickers skipped out of the meeting room and pursued after that red head. She was already talking to Susan's light brown mop.

"Hi Harper." Susan grinned at me, revealing a dead tooth on her bottom row of teeth.

I was careful not to stare at it. "Er—hi Susan. Thanks for letting me have lunch with you two."

Susan shrugged, grabbing her purse. "It's quite alright."

I checked to make sure I had mine as well as I followed the two woman scurry out the building.  
Then the thought of Paul calling while I was at lunch hit me like a can of paint.

Please not again, he can't possibly ring me at an ungodly moment yet again! First, I'm naked in all but the suds of the shower, now I'm off eating a tuna fish sandwich next door? No.

I slapped a palm against our secretary Nancy's desk, sending her upright in a jolt.

She was hunched over, reading a tabloid. "Ah, whut is is?"

"If anyone calls for me," I told her, looking right in her brown eye, hoping it'd make a lasting impression. "Would you tell them to do it again at 12:30?"

She looked back at me round eyes as Nancy nodded her wrinkly little head. "Okay."

I broke out in a grin, slamming my palm on the desk again. "Thanks."

Susan and Cherry were waiting for me when I returned back to them. The two didn't seem to notice all that much as they were already deep into a conversation.

My footing sped up to walk alongside Cherry.

That's when I heard Susan talking about her ex-husband Charles. "He was such a bloody hypocrite," She crinkled her sun-soaked nose in a look of dissatisfaction. "I dunno how many times he tried to start me in a diet only to go have some Jelly Babies in the next room!"

"Hm," I made a noise. "Jelly Babies are rather good."

Susan gave me a look that said 'not helping,' as Cherry had a laugh, shoving me on the shoulder. "Shut up."

"M'sorry." I mumbled to Susan, biting my lip to stifle a chuckle.

This is why she was so annoying, because she was always complaining. Mostly about this husband who dumped her whiny bum (which I don't see as too unreasonable).

Susan always downright complains about her life and, worse part is, it's not even all that terrible. At least she had an ex-husband.

My feet scuttled against the pavement of downtown London, the sounds of the world outside whirling around in my ears. There was a pleasant amount of cars milling by; the pedestrian-to-car ration weighed down by pedestrians.

London in this day and age was a nice place to be, it was better than New York in my opinion. Back home the people would throw cigarettes and spit everywhere. Slur and honk at each other, fender to fender in traffic. Sure, London wasn't completely innocent, but the fracas was the kind I could turn a shoulder to.

It was a change of scenery regardless, and I think everyone needs a change of scenery once in awhile.

Before long, the three of us found our way into Wimpy's, one of my favorite things about Britain.

This joint had everything under the sun from salami platters to spicy chicken pizzas to your standard ham burger. Not to mention all of the sundaes that only justify your conspiracy that I eat too much.

I don't know what it even is, but thank The Lord for my fast metabolism.

I wasted no time in ordering myself a Maxi Burger Cheese and a Pepsi, a content grin on my face that shouted 'I love food!'

Cherry and Susan spent their dimes before joining me at a table facing the amiable street of this town.

Susan began to gripe about how upset she was that they removed something that she loved from the menu here at Wimpy's.

My mouth physically dropped as I stared at her. "Have you seen the length of that thing?" It could hold its own against The Bible.

"Yes," She nodded, her face still burning with pique. "So why did they go and remove the one meal that I love?"

This left me punch-drunk. I had to pinch myself to check that I wasn't in my hometown and Susan wasn't Karen incognito. Turns out I wasn't, but either way was dissatisfying.

Cherry nodded her head at her eyebrow-raising choice of a friend. And I wasn't talking about me. "I know just quite how you feel, Sue."

"Yeah." Susan gave Cherry an affirmative look, beginning to twist her oatmeal coloured hair around her finger.

"So, Harper," Cherry addressed me, showing off her white lines of teeth.

She should recommend her toothpaste brand to Susan.

"I'm dying to hear 'bout that interview!"

Her words made Susan jump up in realization. It was like me when I realized that I forgot the poop bags taking Clyde for a stroll.

"That's right!" She shouted, grinning as well. "You got to speak to all of them! How was it?"

I couldn't deny the beginnings of a simper along my face. It was the one thing I had that the two of them didn't, and that was a nice reality.

"It was fine." I wanted to leave some room for their imaginations and end it there, but they wouldn't have it.

"Well, what did they say?" Cherry beckoned me to continue with her boney hands.

I heaved a shrug. "They answered everything..."

_Cough_ Paul _cough_.

"...respectively. Well, for the most part." I remembered John's dry sense of humour that was barely respective.

Cherry seemed interested in that as she raised her eyebrows. "What's that ab—"

"How was _Paul_?" Susan interrupted, a large grin on her face as she stared at me expectantly.

Cherry quickly readjusted to the interjection, nodding her head at the request. "Yeah, how was Paul? Was he cute?"

"Sure, I guess. Looks about the same on the television."

"So, _yes_, he's cute." Cherry giggled to me as I found myself giggling a little in return.

It wasn't sufficient enough for Susan, however. "What did you chatter about?"

Her words stopped my giggling as I scanned her over, searching for a hidden meaning. As if she was asking _what _we chattered on about yesterday at the late of the hour.

Then I realized there wasn't a way Susan could know about that.

I shrugged again. "Um, he was impartial to my inquiries." I silently agreed with myself that he was indeed the most polished when it came to answering my questions.

I guess he was quite the diplomat of the four.

"C'mon Harper," Susan beckoned, revealing that dead tooth again. "Did he say anything of his love life?"

_His love life. _That thought made me stop for a moment, thinking about the topic. Paul's love life, no he hadn't mentioned anything about that. I mean, why would he anyway? We've only had two conversations and someone's love life is a thing you get into during your fifth conversation.

I really didn't know anything about his love life.

"Um, no." I shook my head at the women, biting on my lip. For some reason this topic got me rather moody.

A boy in a red uniform came over and handed us our trays of food just then.

Susan bid him a thanks before addressing us furthermore. "Well, isn't he with that Jane Asher girl?" She looked down to her food and wrapped her fingers around her chicken sandwich.

This caught my attention even more as I paused in beginning to devour my burger. _Who is Jane Asher_? "What?"

"Yeah!" Cherry shouted out, nodding her head to Susan slowly. "That girl with the red hair, right?" She stole a hopeful glance to me, flicking some of her own hair in my face. "Did he say he has a thing for redheads?"

My blondehead was still trying to wrap around the whole situation. "Who is she?"

I didn't know why I suddenly cared so hard, but the thought of Paul having a girlfriend brought a tinge of red to my cheeks.

"She's really cute," Susan said in the midst of chewing her food. I winced at the view but she continued, unfazed. "She met him kind of like how you did about last year."

"Kind of like how I did?"

"She had to take his photograph for something, I dunno." Susan nodded, moving on to her drink and sipping it loudly like the pig she was. "He sweet talked her and they've been to a few events together, that's all I know. Jane Asher."

He _sweet talked her? _The situation between Paul and Jane and Paul and I seemed uncanny. Did he have a fetish for journalists? Is that what he does? Does he refer to Jane as "love" too?

I started to feel rather embarrassed about the situation as I replayed the conversations I spent with the Beatle in my head. Call me crazy, but it seemed almost as if Paul found me rather intriguing in one way or another. I almost _almost _found him a little flirtatious, but does he have a girlfriend? Is he just a naturally brazen man to everyone he talks with? My feelings were a jumble of embarrassment and distaste as I found myself punch-drunk today _again_. I guess I was wearing my emotions on my sleeve as Cherry nudged me just then.

"What's that look, Harper?" She asked me, her English voice sounding rather squeaky and inquiring.

That's when I glanced up to see that she and Susan were already more than half-way finished with their meals. I must've been wandering to myself a little too hard again. That I did quite often.

I decided to shrug it off, shaking my head and sitting upright in my seat again. "Sorry. Just thinking about a load of stuff, 's all."

Cherry nodded her head before crunching some more iceberg lettuce into her mouth. "If you could marry one of The Beatles, which would you marry?"

Oy vey.

"What do you think?" Susan shot Cherry a look as if she were from another planet. "Paul McCartney, of course."

"Yeah." Cherry nodded her head before poising her lips in a look of thought. "He'd be lovely to show off, but wouldn't you think he'd have the potential go with other women?"

Her words prompted a knot in my stomach.

Susan looked at Cherry again like she was dumb. "He is _not _a lady killer! If anything, I'd say John Lennon'd be the lady killer!"

_Yeah. _

"Paul's so diplomatic, d'ya see him when he talks to the press?"

She dramatically turned over to me, accentuating her words and managing to fling some of her spit on me. "You've interviewed him! Isn't he so composed? No way _that _guy could lead another woman on."

These words being thrown around made me feel like more and more of a dunce. Sure, Paul was polished, but has he been leading me on? Or have I been leading myself on?

This epiphany struck that I was flattering myself to the extremity as I tried to shake the idea out of my head. There wasn't a way Paul could be leading me on if he didn't even have a liking to me in the first place! This is dumb, I'm just a simpleton journalist.

"I don't know. We didn't talk very long." _They didn't know._

"At least you did talk to him!" Cherry laughed, finishing the last of her salad. "Who would you marry, knowing how they're like?"

"I dunno, George?" I told her, purposefully straying away from Paul, making way through the centre of this cheese burger.

She looked at me for a moment before pursing her lips. "Really? I see you more as a John kind of girl."

"No, George suits Harper," Susan agreed with my words, taking another slurp of her bevvie. "They're both intellectual and quiet."

"Harper is not all that quiet!" The tables turned as Cherry looked at Susan like she was the one on acid. "Neither is John. Perfect."

I gave an uncomfortable laugh as I hoped this conversation would wrap up soon. I've never been one for giggling about boys or, more relevantly, celebrity crushes. You probably already know this about me, though.

I concentrated on the cheese burger until I had finished, washing it down my Pepsi Cola.

Not that I cared to have a full on conversation with Paul whom I thought was flirting with me when it turns out he has a girlfriend, _but_ I hope he hasn't rung yet.

This idea incited me to look up at the big retro clock hanging above that extensive menu. _12:13 pm. _Okay, it's only been about fifteen minutes. The chances of him ringing in the past fifteen minutes were slim.

Yet the chances of him ringing in the five minutes when I was showering were also slim.

I sucked on my straw edgily, beginning to gnaw on the thin plastic.

Susan's deep voice continued to whirr onward. "Cherry, I think you could be with George as well. Or maybe Paul," She paused, an ugly smile on her face. "Seeing as he fancies redheads."

_"Okay." _I said just then, hopping up from my stool and walking over to the trash bin with my tray in hand.

Time for me to cut myself out of this situation.

The population in the Wimpy's had more than doubled, full of hungry civilians. Even outside, it seemed as if more people came round. It was a stark comparison to the notable lack of foot traffic in the neighborhood I lived in, just south of downtown. Yes, it was a little more secluded, but I liked it that way. Not too far from downtown, but not close enough that the whistles and the car horns were within an audible range.

Cherry and Susan came up from behind me and also extricated the picked-at contents of their trays, chatting. That's when we collectively exited the joint and joined the jostle of people who fought for position down the London pavement.

A little sigh of contentment sprung free as I grinned, actually feeling like a part of this city rather than just _that one American_.

I heard Cherry's voice in my ear. "Let's not go back just yet," She sighed, tucking her hands into the pockets of her green cargo jacket. "How about we visit a shop?"

Susan checked her leather wristwatch. "Yeah, we've time."

Being in the root of London, a town adorned with tourists, there were an abundance of souvenir shops. Pretty soon, we had found ourselves in one.

"I love London!" key chains and coffee mugs ornamented the endless shelves beside magnets featuring the Union Jack. It was a sight to feast your eyes on.

People hustled by with cameras around their necks and visors to keep from the English rays as I stood to the side of the shop, taking it all in.

I spotted Cherry's red hair from across the room when she beckoned me to her all of the sudden.

She was standing around the press aisle which featured a lot of tabloids. Cherry was holding "The Tattler" in her hand, flipped open to a certain page.

When I joined her, peeking over her shoulder for a glimpse, I can't say I wasn't dissatisfied. "That's Jane Asher." Cherry muttered, running a finger down the slick paper.

Jane Asher had gorgeous orange hair chopped into bangs and blue eyes to match. I examined her wide face as she looked to the photographer of this picture with a stale look. Then there was Paul standing beside her, his mouth cocked open as if he were speaking. He didn't acknowledge the cameramen as it appeared the two were caught walking, donning formal attire.

My face mirrored Jane's fusty look as I pat Cherry on the shoulder. "She's a looker, alright."

"Yeah, I know." Cherry muttered, shutting the tabloid. "I'm jealous."

"I think I'm going to head back to the office," I spoke to her quickly, checking my own wrist watch. It was 12:30 pm.

Regardless of all of these things with Paul and Jane, I still didn't want to miss his call. And this seemed like a good exit, if any, for me to take advantage of.

"Oh," Cherry looked at me, her brown eyes wide. "Okay, are you in a hurry?"

I heaved a shrug, mentally trying to configure how to express my situation. I did so in the simplest terms. "I'm expecting a... business call."

She nodded at me, giving me a smile as she placed the tabloid back on the shelf. "I might linger a little longer, but I'll see you soon?"

A nice smile grew on my face as I bobbed my head back at her. "Most definitely. Thanks for lunch."

With a glance back to Susan, who was reading a tabloid covered in Elvis Presley, I ducked out of the busy shop and into the equally busy streets.

The sky above was painted with deep clouds as I walked along to the Northcliffe House, Daily Mail HQ. It was true, moody weather had just sprung on us as I clung to my denim jacket. It seemed quite light out this morning, but I guess things change. Clouds move.

It was another reason I was far happier here in England, where the grass was green and the sky was a canvas that could be represented by any atmosphere. It was nice to be settled in a place that is as sporadic as you are.

It didn't take too long to make it to the headquarters as I quickly ducked in the heated building which extended upward into the muddled sky.

I so much as gave a nod to the doorman as I raced against the marble floor to Nancy who was sitting exactly where I had found her last. _Almost exactly _where I found her last, with her crinkled nose into one of those tabloids. Does she ever get a lunch break?

I recreated the scene I had thirty minutes ago, which was whacking a palm against the hardwood desk. It was no surprise as Nancy jumped up in her seat again, her small rectangular glasses threatening to tip off her nose. Then her face settled into a sassy look that spoke 'it's you again!'

A simper found its way onto my lips as I raised my eyebrows at her. "Anything?"

Her words left me with a tinge of disdain as she shook that time-defined face. "No, nobody has rung in your favor."

_Aw, well. _Guess I'll just retire back into my office and continue to craft a rough draft of what I have for this interview.

In addition for using it as an excuse to continue talk with Paul, I used his missing answers to my questions as an excuse to stall the actual writing process. Just the thought of forming my information into a cohesive article about the progression of The Beatles made me a little ill. Just all of the pressure...

I rubbed my temple in circles as I slumped back into my office. At least my belly was full, that's always important.

When I finally reached my desk, I plopped down in my swivel chair gratefully. And I just sat there for a moment, rocking the chair back and forth as I was left to my thoughts.

How would I introduce the article? What would be my hook opening? Not like that would make a difference as to whether or not my readers would keep reading. If this was about the Fab Four, it didn't matter what I intro'd with. As long as I got some quotes in there and expressed how nice their mop tops were.

But it mattered to me.

I took a scrap piece of paper aside and began to scribble down potential beginnings:

There is no denying that the four lads from Liverpool have made it big.

No.

John, Paul, George and Ringo: Also known as The Beatles have become household names.

Definitely no.

From Liverpool to the hearts of many, The Beatles plan their musical debut in the states this week.

Close, but no cigar.

England bids good bye to its very own Fab Four this week as they depart overseas to America.

I stared at my scribble and began to purse my lips. This seemed alright, I suppose, but it still didn't feel like the icing on the cake. My thoughts from earlier came to my rescue just then as I recalled _as long as I've got some quotes in there..._

Quickly, I shuffled through my bag of stuff and retrieved the tape recorder from the very bottom, an idea springing on me.

"_How does it feel about to go to America?_ Well, it feels real fucking great." I stopped at a quote by the talkative John, stopping it to write the words down. Well, apart from the slur. Can't slur.

There was some banter before he rerouted back to his answer as I was quick to scribble it down as well: "The group I started approximately four years ago is not the group I ever thought would be here today. The reality that we are indeed here today is too much to grasp." I cut it short then, smiling at what I had copied down.

This would be a solid intro and, when I credit John Lennon, it'd be the toy at the bottom of the cereal box.

As I gave myself a rightful pat on the back, my telephone began to blare from the receiver.

It caught me off guard as I found myself pulling a Nancy. Then the reality that it could be Paul took control as I started to grin.

Every little dying tinge of indignation that lingered about the Jane thing vanished as I picked up the phone. It was exciting to engage in conversation with someone who grasped onto every word I said and I vied for more of it.

"This is Harper Mooney of The Daily Mail." I spoke into the receiver, taking the opportunity to flaunt my title. And to make it sound like I wasn't awaiting his call yet again.

"Oh, is it?" That strong English accent rung out that I had come to familiarize myself with so well. "Well that's good."

"Hello Paul." I tried to stifle the smile on my face, leaning back in my chair as I kicked my legs on my working desk.

Though he didn't seem to be as bashful as I could almost see the smile on his face. "Hi Harper."

"How are things in your world?" I asked him, alluding to the plane he was off on _tomorrow!_

Paul caught right on, speaking loudly over his busy foreground. "It's rather crazy," He laughed, his voice lowering to a whisper. "It's weird."

I gave him a laugh myself, grabbing the cord on the telephone. "But a good kind of weird?"

"Oh, yeah!" Paul shouted out again, making me smile.

This is so exciting, even for me to sit here and listen about it. "Well, that's good."

"Whatta bout you, hm?" He asked me, making a sound like he was sitting down in a chair. "Anything interesting?"

I shrugged for a moment until realizing that he couldn't see me do it. "Mm, just bored at work." Then I had an idea, perking up. "Have you ever had Wimpy's?"

Paul snorted almost as to say 'are you daft?' "'Course!"

A lackadaisical smile grew on my face as I nodded slowly. "That was the highlight of my day."

"The biggest burger—"

_"Maxi Burger!"_

"Yes!" He started to chuckle, sounding certain with himself. "The _Maxi,_ real great."

As we both chuckled together and made casual small chat, I crinkled my nose. It was like we were two best buddies, since when had we gotten so familiarized with each other?

It was silly enough that I was making fast friends with _anyone, _but-I can't stress enough that this is one of _The Beatles! _Put yourself in my shoes, y'know? I should say it's_ bloody mad! _It was about time to embrace my English manner, wasn't it?

This was me befriending a celebrity. A celebrity that owned the hearts of every Brit in this country, and quite possibly the next country over. Hey, my neighbors didn't even know my name while a hundred million people know his.

_Bloody hell._

"I'm glad I can talk to someone who isn't constantly bugging me about the thing," Paul's voice slowed to a murmur as he confessed this to me. "Thanks for talking to me, love."

Thanks for talking _to him? _Incredulous.

"Um, thank _you _for talking to _me!"_ I scoffed rather loudly, managing to get that telephone cord in a bundle.

"Well..."

"Today, I was with some people and they started talking about you and I was over here chuckling to m'self." I confessed to him, a smirk rising on my face at the words.

Paul seemed bemused as well as he let out a snort. "Whut were you talking about?"

Then a lurching force detonated in my stomach as I remembered what we were talking about. How could I put it into words? A part of me wanted to cut around the hedge and blow it off, but at the same time, I was so incredibly curious about Jane Asher.

"Eh," I started off with something neutral, shrugging my shoulders. "Just about you."

Paul continued to make an effort to squeeze more out of me. "Like what?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I just want to know." He told me simply, his voice sounding a tad bit defensive and that's when I decided to speed things up.

"Um," I paused again, trying to form a cohesive sentence in my head before impulsively blurting something out. "I dunno, just you in comparison to the others and, yeah, a little bit about Jane too."

There was a pause on his line this time as I all could hear were the signs of activity in his background.

My eyebrows rose subconsciously as I began to fiddle my thumbs impatiently. I didn't want this to be awkward.

"She's pretty." I offered, attempting to pour some baking soda on this grease fire. The pause was still relevant before, at last, Paul made a noise.

"Jane Asher?" He asked me, sounding genuinely distraught.

This caught me off guard, _who else? _Even if he knew other Jane's, wouldn't his _girlfriend _be the first one that came to mind?

"Yes." I told him slowly, furrowing my active eyebrows.

"Oh," Paul made a 'heh' noise, his voice easing up. "We aren't really together or anything."

My mouth dropped open at the puzzling confession. Everything thought this was his girl, I thought this was his girl.

I didn't mask my confusion at his confusing words. "You aren't?"

"Well, not really." He sighed. "She's not my girlfriend, I just take her to things of mine. That's really about it, y'know?"

Paul's words confirmed that he wasn't affiliated with Jane romantically and, I'm not going to lie, that calmed me down. I don't know why that calmed me down, but when he said "_she's not my girlfriend," _it lifted a void weight off of me.

I guess it made me feel like these things that he'd been telling me weren't things he was telling to other woman, like Jane, really. I don't know.

I tried not to let this feeling of relief seem blatant as I lowered my voice, trying to sound collected. "Oh, that's a shock."

"Yeah, but it's not anything I'm pursuing." Paul told me, his voice reaching this level of affirmation.

A little smile found its way onto my lips. "I understand."

There was another scene of silence as I actually heard Paul muster a laugh on the other line. "Good."

These pauses were really throwing my suave off as I giggled a little in response. Never before have I felt like such a _girl._

"So, um," I made an effort to reroute this _'who's going to talk first' _feeling we were sharing. "Did ya ever talk to John like you _swore _you'd do?"

My words seemed to recharge Paul as his vocals perked up just then. "Yes, you're in luck."

I sat up in my seat, scooting as close to the desk as I could. Grabbing my interview pad of paper and a pencil, I prepared to capture every word.

Paul's words didn't disappoint. "When I first heard John in 1957, his group was playing at this airy-fairy church fundraiser," He paused, the essence of a beam tainting his voice as he reminisced. "And, a few songs into the performance, John forgot the lyrics to what he was singing. He pulled some words from his arse and mumbled them along to the beat."

My hand was working a mile a minute, a grin etching onto my face. I've heard loads of information about how these four came to be; George and Paul on the school bus, Pete Best, The Silver Beatles. Nothing before they made it big-before they even formed-has ever been spoken of. It was intimate information that was sealed off along with their modern lives in England.

"No one else really gave a nod to his mess up, but I knew it in the moment. But the way he covered it up with these false lyrics and still managed to pull away unscathed, it intrigued me. It's when I realized that he was pretty righteous." Paul concluded his tidbit, leaving me in awe.

_"I realized that he was pretty righteous." _I scribbled the last part, my eyes wide.

Looking back at the chicken scrawl that looks like it'd been muddled up by a six-year-old, I realized how much of a journalist I was. The astonished smile on my face felt like it was stretching past my cheeks. This would be a kick-ass article, I'd make sure of it.

I let out a breath. "That's amazing."

Paul tried to brush it off. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Thanks for sharing that with me." I told him insistently.

That's when he lightened up a little bit more. "I thought it'd be nice to include, I dunno."

My eyes traveled over the story a few times. The way Paul said it so effortlessly was curious. Did he have to consult John for this information that he seemed to recall just fine?

"Well, I wrote it down."

Paul sighed, his voice sounding a little relieved over the muffled telephone. "Really? 'S sufficient enough? I thought you were going to pass it off."

Clearly he couldn't see my face right now.

I clutched the phone tightly in my hand, smirking. "Damn, you caught me."

It seemed as though I caught him unexpectedly, the volume of his voice heightened. "What?"

That's when I started to laugh. "I'm _joking!"_

"Ah," Paul shouted dramatically. "I just about lost the plot!"

My eyebrow crinkled at his slang. "Lost the plot?"

He let out a loud chuckle. "Right! You're an American!" Paul poked and, if he were in the room with me, I'd figure this would be the time where he ruffles my hair.

I laughed. "Well I'm sorry!"

My words were the right ones as Paul continued to laugh, trying to speak in the midst of it. "I'm gunna say some English phrases and you tell me what you think they are!"

Simply couldn't say no to that voice, one that sounded like he hadn't been able to laugh like this in a while.

"Okay." I curled up in the swivel chair, my feet touching the top of my desk as I laid my head on my knees, the phone turning my knuckles white.

"Okay," He nodded, taking a breath. "Whatta bout the bee's knees?"

I didn't resist the large scoff that burst out my system. "I'm not _that _clueless!"

He laughed, shaking his head. Or so I pictured him to be doing. "Okay, don't get your knickers in a bunch." Paul paused. "Eh?"

"Knickers are underwear!" I put the pieces together, rolling my eyes. "That one's real nice, _really_."

"Hah!" Paul didn't quit, firing another one to me. "Gobsmacked?"

In the midst of my snarky raid, the phrase bit me in the tongue. Gobsmacked? Gob is mouth, but smacked? Like smacked in the mouth?

"Okay, I dunno that one." I confessed begrudgingly, exaggerating my words.

He seemed pleased. "It's similar to being amazed."Paul giggled, "_Duh_."

"Oh, shut it." A little smile found its way onto my face, for I could feel it. "What else?"

"Telly."

"Television!"

"Daft?"

"Dumb!" I shouted, blowing out the side of my nose. "I've been here a year, y'know?"

"Damn!" He shouted out again, making me laugh. "What's a bugger?"

I know this. _Not_ a bug. "Someone who's an ass!"

"Gah," Paul grumbled, only feeding to my amusement. "You little clever clog."

I didn't actually know what a "clever clog" was, but I decided to pretend like I did and kept mum about it. Don't tell him.

"Okay, you better know this one." He continued, sounding sure of himself. "_Scouser._"

I pictured Paul peeling his eyes at me shiftily, waiting for me to hiccup. Indeed I did.

Scouser? Where was a dictionary when you needed one?

"Alright," I sighed, throwing my free hand up in defeat. "I honestly don't know what a scouser is, nor have I ever heard of it."

Paul didn't take these words with a grain of salt. He gasped, trying his greatest to act appalled. "You don't?"

He made me laugh at his poor acting skills. "I can see why you're not an actor."

"It's-_Hey,_ we filmed a picture, y'know!" Paul started laughing. "That's saying something."

I heard about that, but found no prospect in questioning it further. "What's a scouser?"

"Someone from Liverpool!" He exclaimed like I was crazy.

Maybe I was.

"_Ah,_" I threw my head back, having a laugh. "I thought that was _Liverpudlian_!"

"It varies." He said, a soft smirk on his face.

It was mad that I could depict the things he was doing over the phone. It was the only situation that our imaginations could run wild in, trying to imagine each other's actions. At least I could put a face with many expressions to the voice. Paul, on the other hand, only had a remnant of what I looked like to his imagination.

"My turn!" I yelled, my eyes lighting up. Now the tables would turn. "Now let's test your American knowledge."

"Unfair, I've never been. You've been here a year!" He argued, making a pout.

I pouted just the same. "Aw, c'mon, just guess what they could be." A coy look flashed on my face. "We Americans aren't as creative as you people anyway."

"Sure," Paul said, turning gears and sounding up for the challenge. "Let me know."

The search through my memory for the most American words went in motion. "Okay, try bonkers."

It didn't take too long for him to quick whip back at me. "Mad. That's _bonkers!_"

"Asswipe?"

"A jerk."

"Take a hike?"

"Get outta here."

"Red hot?"

"Important?"

I frowned at his accuracy, squinting my eyes. _How? _I leaned back in my chair and let my eyes review the ceiling. "Hm, okay, how bout far-out?"

This one left him more of a doozy and that made me laugh even more.

"Uh," Paul said, trying to keep himself from laughing as well. "Could you maybe use it in a sentence?"

He started to chuckle at his situation as well, both of us cackling to each other through a piece of magical plastic.

"_Whoa,_ have you seen heard Paul McCartney? His voice is so far-out!" I tried my hand at a Californian accent, subjecting myself to total humiliation.

At least it was worth something as Paul began to laugh louder than before. "Then it must mean wonderful, huh?"

I snorted, clapping my hands loudly as I wedged the phone between my ear and my shoulder. "How modest!"

"What is it, I dunno?" Paul confessed to me rather cheekily.

"I guess it's a synonym for great."

"Aw," He cooed across the line, making a sound like he was squishing back into a leather chair. Maybe the same one as last time. "Does that mean you've done called my voice great?"

The blood on my cheeks burned brightly at the situation I had found myself in the midst of. "Think what you want."

"_Tell me I'm the only one,_" Paul began to sing just then, his flawless voice intermingled with chuckles. "_And then I might never be the lonely one._"

AHHHH!

"Okay!" I shouted out, slapping a palm to my face. He was singing the lyrics to my favorite song that he'd sung, Hold Me Tight.

I guess he really clung onto that bit of information. Paul continued to hum the tune to me until I finally got him to quit it, feeling sheepish.

"_Yes_, your voice is great!" I told Paul, my laughter echoing throughout my little office.

I spun myself around in my swivel chair, the telephone cord wrapping around my stomach. "Besides, I like when you sing _'tonight' _the most." I murmured in there, my eyes training down to my feet.

Paul began to harmonize just what I had muttered, making this laughter I was generating continue to pour out. It was a coarse jumble of hilarity and completely mind-boggling awe. Here Paul McCartney was singing one of his songs to me over the telephone. And my favorite one, to boot.

Aw shit, here comes the erotic blushing that'll live on my face until noon tomorrow.

"You're making me all bashful!" I told him in a whisper, shoving my head into my knees in this flow of emotions I was experiencing.

Paul seemed to enjoy this comment, the sound of his laughter tattooing itself into my brain. "Aw."

Grabbing the telephone cord, I slowly turned the chair back to my desk. "Do you always sing to people over the phone?"

"As often as I call them 'love.'" His words made my heart stop for a moment. He told me he rarely refers to people by that.

There he went again, his voice bleached with a flirtatious nature. Since he's declined the whole Jane situation, what does this mean? Too much for my little mind.

I squeezed my eyes shut, exhaling out of my nose. "Do you enjoy making girls fluster over themselves? I mustered a laugh, scooting into the desk, my legs tangled under it.

With the telephone clutched in my hand and a wide smile on my face, I casually looked up from my desk. What I saw almost made me drop it.

Paul's voice on the other line turned into gibberish as my eyes feasted through the glass doors of my room.

Close to everyone on this floor was watching me from behind their cubicles or standing up to the door. That's when I spotted Nancy, our secretary, peeking at me with eyes as rotund as her stature.

Holy shit.

"UH!" I shouted out into the phone, cutting Paul off abruptly. His puzzled response was the least of my worries as I muttered into the receiver. "Hold on!"

Then I slammed the telephone down on the couch, standing up in my chair and staring back at my entire department. When I did this, close to all of them scuttled back to their positions, whispering to themselves.

Angie, however, remained her footing as she looked at me with her arms crossed. _Oh no! _Nancy told everyone I was speaking and, more prominently giggling, with Paul McCartney. On the job. I bit my lip, was Angie upset at me for chatting on the phone when I should've been working?

I felt like I could piss myself just then.

With my tail between my legs, I hurried over to my door and stepped on the other side, facing my skeptical boss.

We both stared at each other for a moment before she grabbed my shoulder and pulled me into my office. I could feel all of those peepers coming back into place again as they watched the head honcho approach the employee.

"Hi." I muttered, giving her a weak smile.

Angie's intimidating eyes looked me over with a confusing glint in her eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Ah," I motioned back to my desk. "My...work."

She bobbed her time-worn head up and down slowly as she eyed my desk herself. "Really?"

You could probably tell how terrified I am in this situation right now.

"...Yes." I gave her, sounding totally pathetic. I cursed myself in my head. _Why?_

Her eyes remained on me for a moment longer, looking stony, until Angie suddenly grew a huge grin on her face, throwing her hands in the air. "You're talking to Paul!"

I blushed as she scurried over to the telephone. "Yes. For the interview." I added in there, trying to appear as professional as possible.

Angie, on the other hand, wasn't keeping up that posh persona. She looked up to me with a grin. "Could I say hi?"

Before I could object, she had the white telephone on her ear. "Was Ms. Mooney really talking to Paul McCartney?"

My eyes were as wide as saucers as I watched Angie's expression. It went from hopeful to gleaming as she looked at me excitedly, throwing me a thumbs up.

Oh my God.

"Oh, she was?" Angie asked Paul, whom I couldn't hear whatsoever.

I turned back around to see my co-workers indeed staring at me in awe. Then I spotted Cherry and Susan walk in. Oh shit.

With the sight of Susan's wheat bran coloured hair, I ran back to my desk and yanked on the telephone cord, giving Angie a pleading look.

If Susan found out I was currently conversing with her celebrity crush, she'd demand to squeal to him and ruin everything in the process.

Angie gave me a pout before I yanked it out of her hand, holding the phone up to my ear again. "Ah, sorry Paul."

His English voice perked up when he realized it was me again. "Who was that?"

"My _boss. _Everyone found out I was talking with you." I fessed as I watched Angie sit down in one of the chairs in my room, her face still hopeful.

"Tell her I said goodbye."

I held a hand to the ear and spoke aloud to Angie in a monotone voice. "He said goodbye."

She seemed satisfied as Angie popped up from the seat, grinning as she made her way out of the room. "Tell him he's dreamy."

"M'kay." I mumbled as she exited, planning never to tell him that.

I resumed back to the phone conversation.

Paul seemed delighted by the situation. "Did I get you in trouble, Ms. Mooney?"

His words made me even more of a mess as I tried to stifle this beam that was threatening to expose itself. "No, now she's going to be asking for yer ringer."

"Would it end badly if I gave you a bell t'morrow?" Paul asked me, throwing in one of those gosh darned slangs that I didn't know.

"I don't think..." I trailed off, shaking my head. "Maybe if I _knew what that meant_!"

"I thought you were _Ms. 'I've been here for a year'_? Paul let out a giggle as I pictured a sly smile find its way onto his handsome face, he feet kicked up. "Could I call you tomorrow? Would that be bad?"

I ignored to question the origin for _why _he'd want to do that for now and focused on one thing. "Aren't you leaving tomorrow?!"

"At three!" He rebutted back to me. "Could I call you before then? To get some perspective from a _real life American_ about America?" Paul said it like I was a dinosaur specimen or something of that surreal realm.

"I dunno if I want to talk to a _real life Brit, _though." I mimicked him, hoping the sarcasm in my tone was obvious.

Paul was smart as he gave me a snort. "Well too bad, barmy."

"I know what that one means!" I shouted out, wagging a finger in the air to someone who was over the telephone. What a sad situation.

Paul laughed. "Please?"

That was all I needed. "Yes, of course. Ring me here."

There was a flash of relief that went through Paul just then as he sighed. "Great. Grand."

"Grand!" I smiled, picking at my fingernail.

Then I remembered Susan Eckles and sat upright in my chair. "Well, I should run before anyone else in this place raids my office again." It would happen.

Paul took this as the sign-off as he smiled. "It was fun chatting to you, love."

"You as well, love!" I imitated him and pulled my lousiest English accent.

It made him squeal, sounding as bemused as ever. "I hope I don't sound like that!"

I was giggling like a schoolgirl when, there, just past my doors, was Susan and Cherry. Coming right at me, Susan taking the lead with an astonished look on her face.

"Okay, Paul, gotta go." I hurried quickly, bidding him a farewell. For now. "Talk to you tomorrow, you gobsmacker."

"That's not the correct context," He seemed happy that I was giving it a go. "Goodbye Harper."

I smiled, closing my eyes and cherishing this moment before mumbling a 'Bye' and lying the phone back onto the receiver.

_Ah._

Not a second and a half later did the door open and Susan stood there, her mouth wide. "Time for you to tell us about your giggly hour-long conversations with _Paul McCartney_!"

Ah.

**A/N:**

**I hope you liked this chapter where I tried to begin a path for the relationship between Paul and Harper to begin on! Tell me which part you liked the most? Thanks so much! ;) 7.17.14**


	4. Chapter 4

"Susan, could I get a cup of coffee without you breathing down my neck?" I snipped, filling up my mug with this liquid drug that helped me get through the hell that is mornings.  
That's why I needed it now more than ever with nosey Susan Eckles adding more kindling to the fire.  
Since everyone decided that I was flirting with Paul McCartney over the phone, they've been questioning me a lot. Susan especially, being the fan girl she was.  
I had managed to throw her out of my office yesterday with the assistance of Angie, but now I didn't have that advantage. Angie didn't check in until about 11, so I was left defenseless while this leech sucked out my insides.  
I'm sorry, some people are such buggers, you know what I mean?  
She groaned, contorting her face into what I was guessing to be a pout. "You haven't told me a thing! I just wanna know what he has to say over the telly!"  
I let out a sigh, repositioning myself before the sugar and creamer. "He has quite a social vocabulary."  
There was little information that I wanted to share with anyone, let alone SUSAN. I knew this was frustrating her, which was boosting my satisfaction.  
"Like what? What d'ya mean?" She continued to peck out of me.  
That's when I came to the realization that this woman was not going to quit until I told her something to sink her teeth into.  
I knew just what to say.  
"He isn't with Jane Asher." I gave Susan a side-glance, my eyebrows arched.  
Her voice portrayed her expression perfectly as I turned back to my bevvie. "_What?!_"  
The blatant zealousness in her tone frightened me a little bit. Maybe I shouldn't have shared _that_ bit of personal information with her.  
I tried to minimize it as much as I could, giving a brief shrug. "Well, he said she was merely his date to social events." I mixed my concoction together, avoiding her impeding stare I could feel burning through my side. "Take that however you want."  
"I'll take it as _she's his back pocket girl!_ D'ya believe he has no romantic feelings for her?"  
I plucked the thin piece of wood into the trash bin, having no choice but to look up at her. "Er, I dunno. We didn't talk much about it." It didn't take long until I was inhaling the coffee like oxygen. "I don't think so, but I dunno."  
Yes, I did think so! I think he doesn't have any romantic feelings for her seeing as he does not wish to string Jane along as his legitimate girlfriend. In that moment, I longed to meet her and see what she was like. See what it was that drew Paul to her while learning what is was about her that Paul didn't want in his love life.  
Susan didn't give a damn about Jane, she was just excited to hear that Paul wasn't technically off the market. A big crooked smile formed, revealing that grayscale dead tooth of hers.  
"This is great news! Will he phone you again?" She asked me, looking hopeful.  
I peeled my eyes at her, clanking my nails against the side of my mug. "Why d'ya ask?"  
Susan made no effort to hide her desperate intentions. "Maybe I could talk to him and get to know him?" She asked me, sounding sincere in this endeavor.  
I almost spit my coffee all over her eager face. _Seriously?_  
Was this woman really that dense that she couldn't tell I would never let that happen? First off, she makes my skin crawl with her constant whining and attitude. Second off, she is incredibly ignorant to the first off and that was just annoying. Take a hint, Susan.  
Of course, however, I was not this candid to her face. "Well, I dunno when he'll ring if he does at all." I told her, forming a look like that said 'don't know what to tell you.' "We'll see, I suppose."  
She nodded firmly, parting her lips and sealing up that wretched tooth. Doesn't she want to, I dunno, do something about that?  
I am not really this judgmental of a person, for I only mentally attack people whom really push my buttons. Or, as Paul brought to my attention, get my _knickers in a bunch. _These could include anyone of my blood relatives, Susan, Jay the obnoxious photograph editor and my old typewriter.  
I hope you can understand.  
"Can I ask you somet else?" She spoke to me, her mousey body following me as I then made my way out of the staff lounge.  
I was a little disappointed to see that I had yet to shake her loose as I nodded begrudgingly at her request. "Why not?"  
"What was it that you were giggling about?" Susan asked me, sounding wildly curious and even a little defensive.  
This formed a smirk on my face as I continued to sip on my coffee, three paces ahead of her. "You think I'm gunna take yer little Paul away?" I mocked her, finding my voice to be a little haughty.  
Immediately, I felt stupid for acting so superior to even Susan. I slowed down and matched my step with hers.  
"Nothing too specific," I answered her inquiry, attempting to shrug off my comment. "You're right, he is a pretty righteous person."  
I noticed a big grin blossom on her face from the side of my view. "How nice! It's so ace that you got to chat him up, Harper. It's a girl's fantasy."  
I began to gnaw my lip, trying to keep my emotions locked in. Her words made me extremely bashful and struggling to find a response. What was I to say? Thanks?  
That's what I opted for, "thank you."  
Susan finally strutted away to her desk, that tweed skirt swishing back and forth as she went.  
I looked down at my own attire just then. I was wearing a madras short-sleeve shirt and some high-waisted Capri pants. My hair was up in a ponytail, totally casual.  
I peeked around to all of the neighboring people to scope out their outfits. Most of the women in the department were clad in tweed skirts and black or white blouses. In fact, I was the only one wearing madras. It's very character defining, though, ain't it?  
Aimlessly, my eyes made contact with the clock. It was 10:45 am. The post hadn't come in for today yet, but I'll fetch my mail from yesterday that I hadn't got to.  
I never got much mail outside of shop promotions and life insurance pitches, so I didn't check it daily. Besides, I was kicking the soccer ball around haphazardly before Angie clocked in. Then that's when she, _the boss_, would be poking her head in hourly and I'd have no choice but to work.  
But it was only 10:45.  
Quickly, I split into my office to fiddle with the top drawer of my desk. It was getting the key through the keyhole, something I've always struggled at despondently. First, I had to find which one on my key ring was the one for the drawer (since I've been too lazy to mark them), then I had to decipher which way to push it in, then which way to turn and how hard to push on it. _Jeez._  
At last, I got the drawer open only to fetch another key that I did have marked as "MAIL!"  
I felt daft as I walked out of my office and back down the hallway towards the mail slots. Why did I mark the sole key that belonged to one place while my _entire key ring_ was full of mysteries? Of course the single key in the top drawer of my desk was for mail, it's always been this way! So why did I label _that_?  
I quickly decided to brush the stupid thought off, having no interest to question my life decisions right now.  
As I made my way to the front of the building, I felt several pairs of eyes watching me. So I peeked around to see people all whispering and poking at me, wide-eyed.  
Oh jeez! It wasn't that large of a deal, was it? I was writing an article for all of the lower centre part of Britain! Of course I'd be in communication with at least one of my subjects, it wasn't _that _weird?  
Of course, I wasn't on the other side of the glass watching me spin around in my chair and, apparently, giggling it up with Paul.  
I couldn't bring myself to deny having my entire office think I was flirting with a superstar was just a bit exciting. Just the fact that my name was being brought up in their cubicles with their friends, it was an esteem booster. I despised the limelight, don't get me wrong, but a little admiration from afar didn't hurt.  
A little smile was toying on my lips as I found my way to the front of the Northcliffe House.  
The foot traffic was much more minimal than in the office area, but I had hardly noticed as I went over to my mail slot.  
I could see some stark white envelopes through the slits in the locker as I groaned, pulling out the titled mail key. I shoved it in and cranked it every which way until the metal frame swung open. I wiped the imaginary beads of sweat off my face, grabbing the wad of black and white paper. I shut the mail locker back again, only for the key to be frozen in spot inside of the keyhole.  
Several moons later, it was yanked out while managing not to spill my cup anywhere.  
My spirits were pissed off as I turned and stumbled back to where I came from, before spotting something move from my peripheral.  
Just then, I had the grand epiphany that the mail slots were in the main entrance beside the front desk. The front desk that silly little Nancy engineered. My current best mate, if you couldn't tell.  
She had moved her brown horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose as she appeared to be reading another tabloid.  
A crooked grin found its way onto my expression as I bee lined right to her desk. You'll never guess what I did then as I slammed my palm against the hardwood surface.  
As always, Nancy shot up from her seat with the movements that an electric shock could give. She seemed alarmed at first, until she familiarized my face. Nancy's eyed widened.  
"Ms. Mooney," She handed me an unconvincing fake grin. "I didn't expect to see you up here."  
Suddenly a rush of adrenaline shot through my veins as I quick whipped back to her. My sisters would've been proud of the attitude I expressed. "Why? Because you think I'd be too busy chatting with _Paul_?"  
And like I said, I was not utterly upset that she told everyone a about Paul, but I wanted her to keep her nose out of it. It was none of her business, as none of the office's business, whom I was talking to over the telephone and what about.  
Her once gallant smile lost all of its edge as Nancy slumped in her chair. "I'm sorry, I recognized his voice instantly and couldn't keep to m'self."  
I raised my eyebrows at her, leaning against the desk with my elbow on the top surface. "Did he tell you his name?"  
"No," Nancy shook her head, adjusting her perfectly adjusted glasses once more. She was nervous. "He just said hello and asked for Harper Mooney."  
"Okay, Nanc," I told her, about to prepare her for the next time she'd hear Paul's voice over the phone. "He's gunna ring me again today, would you not tell anyone? I don't want anyone to get any...ideas." For lack of better words, I suppose.  
Her eyes were wide as Nancy manifested the idea."He will?" There was a slight essence of curiosity in her tone as Nancy saw it in her best interest to leave the questions at that.  
For this I was grateful.  
I nodded to her slowly, tucking my hair behind my ear. "Yes, so don't have a cow." I said, looking her in the eye. "And please don't tell anyone again."  
Nancy didn't take a moment to consider as she wobbled her head up and down. "I understand."  
With her pleasing words came a grateful smile as I nodded back at her. "Thank you."  
I turned my heel just then and retreated to my office, coffee cup in hand.  
As I was strolling back, someone came up and approached me. "Hi! Harper, right?" She asked under her thick bangs.  
I honestly did not know who this person was aside from spotting her in the frequent meetings. Another person dressed to the nines, though.  
"Um, yeah. Hi." I told the woman, giving a confused smile to her.  
Then the realization hit me. Just another one of Paul's admirers.  
My suspicions were justified as she indeed asked about him. "You interviewed The Beatles! And talked to Paul McCartney on the telly, right?"  
I began to itch along my arms, trying to hide my irritation. "Yes, okay, I did talk to him."  
Suddenly, an annoying voice rang out behind me in the form of a laugh. It was Jay.  
"Wow, Harper, you've never been so popular!" He shouted behind a stack of paper in his hands.  
I gave Jay a grimace, swatting some of the pieces on the ground.  
"Hey!" He shouted, ducking to pick them up as he whined.  
He and Susan would be perfect.  
Jay Cartwright was his name, he was the general photographer for anything local. He had bright red hair—a popular theme in people lately—and his face was defined by freckles. That and his 6'2 stature as well.  
He was always making obnoxious comments and picking on people around the office and I despised him for it. Jay got a high on pissing people off.  
"Go away, would you?" I told him moodily, facing the woman again.  
She seemed unaware of Jay's existence as she continued to look at me with a zealous glint in her eyes. "What did he say?"  
Did this girl, whom I've never had a conversation with, think I was going to gossip with her like a schoolgirl?  
Jay interjected again however, holding tightly to his stack of paper. "Ah, Harper didn't _really_ talk to Paul McCartney." He made a 'psst' sound of disbelief. "She's probably making all this up."  
Can you see why he was so obnoxious? My lack of desire to fight him was as strong as my lack of desire to continue to talk to these people.  
"Think what you want," I shrugged to him, facing the woman again. "He was nice. Sounded a lot like he did on the records." I smiled to her before patting her shoulder and pushing past Jay. I retreated back to my desk and hoped that nothing would distract me again.  
Once I finally made it through the glass doors to my swivel chair, coffee mug in hand, I sighed.

_Phew._  
With a few moments of savoring the emptiness of this room, I shot up in my seat. I was met with this unfamiliar feeling of zealous excitement to get the ball rolling.  
So I pulled out my trusty pad of paper and flipped it back to the spot I was at yesterday.  
After my conversation with Paul and the ordeal with Angie and Susan, I dabbled another few lines. I had also blueprinted an outline for the article.  
It was a front page slot which meant I had plenty of characters to fill up, so I didn't hesitate in my rubric.  
First, I would talk about The Beatles' rising fame and what got them to the position they are at today. Then I'd pinpoint each of the four and conclude it with Paul's quote: "I just didn't ever think this would happen to me—to us. It rocks."  
I was satisfied with my progress as I felt myself beginning to fill in the voids. There's nothing better than breaking writers block and becoming unstoppable.  
I worked my way back up to the front of the article where I had quoted John about America. Then I followed that up with this: "John Lennon gives some insight as England bids good bye to its very own Fab Four as they depart overseas to America."  
Sip of coffee, _ahhh._  
I tapped my pencil against the side of the marmalade coloured paper in thought. What to say now? With a twirl around in my swivel, a train of thought entered my mind. I was quick to jot it down: "The Beatles have become a smashing success over the transatlantic radios with hits like 'I Want To Hold Your Hand' and 'When I Saw Her Standing There'. So much so, they're set to perform in places such as Washington D.C. and New York City after their voyage starting February 7th."  
Curiously, I glanced up at the landscaped calendar to see it really was Friday, February 7th. They were leaving today for about three weeks.  
I clenched the pencil between my teeth, lying my head against the wooden desk. I wonder what it'd be like, going on tour. It must be as exciting as it was terrifying for them. Especially since this is land they've never trekked along before—with the exception of George. Though last time he's visited the states, they hadn't a clue who he was. Boy, was that going to change.  
It must be weird, having people scream until going into cardiac arrest just for you.  
I've heard of Beatles performances impossible to hear because the screams were so overpowering. Could you imagine that? Singing in a microphone, callusing your fingers to a crowd of hundreds upon thousands of people who never wanted you to stop?  
No wonder everyone is so intrigued that I spoke to the select four.  
"But with the Beatles comes John, Paul, George and Ringo, four lads who grew up just in Liverpool." I added another tidbit, satisfied with what I've gotten so far and where I found myself going. Now I needed talk about how normal they truly were.  
"Upon speaking to the men, also credited as the Fab Four, it was clear to see they weren't just rockstars. John, Paul George and Ringo were simply that—four individual people who have found themselves in the midst of their most successful time of their lives.  
Paul McCartney, one of the group's two front runners, speaks volumes after being asked about such success: 'It's quite odd, I don't think I have accustomed to it yet," he says, moving around uncomfortably in his seat.'"  
A big grin sprouted on my face after slaving away over this notepad for what seemed to be a decade. Just wait until I put it through the printer and manufacture it! That's okay, it was worth it.  
Taking a sip of coffee, shook my hand vigorously after having just extensively written away for some time. This thought prompted me to actually check the clock, which informed me that it had been twenty-five minutes since I retired back inside of here. Figures, I've gone back and forth on these words endlessly as I sit here still feeling mediocre about them.  
They'll do for now.  
I was rereading my words over and over again, making quick adjustments, until the loud chirp of the phone rang out in the office.  
The sound made me jump suddenly, fireworks began to go off in my stomach. Was it Paul?  
I sat up in my desk as I grinned widely, leaning over and cutting the shrill ringing off as I took the phone off the receiver.  
I slapped myself on the side of the face (which I regretted instantly) and held the plastic telly to my ear. "This is Harper Mooney of The Daily Mail."  
"Um, hello Ms. Mooney."  
My face fell the moment I heard the voice on the other line. It wasn't Paul, but Judy, my teenage neighbor. She walked my dog Clyde every day, so I assumed that's why she rung me today.  
"Hello Judy, how are you?" I responded in a lackluster fashion, mostly upset that I was talking to a fifteen-year-old girl and not Paul right now.  
The braces-talk is what gave her away as she continued to sputter. "Um, I'm sorry to bother you at work."  
"It's alright. What's up?"  
Judy pulled away from the phone for a minute, calling and whistling to Clyde. "Do you know where Clyde's dog leash is then?"  
I took a moment to trace back my memory for where his leash could be. I didn't take him on any walks since last night, so it came to the matter of where Judy put them. "Well, I dunno, did you try checking beside the hot water heater?"  
"Yeah," She mumbled. "I can't find it."  
"Whatta bout under the sink, Judy?" I asked her, slumping back in my chair, bored.  
"I checked there too." Judy sighed, whistling to Clyde again. "It's okay, I'll just make one."  
She'll make one? I opened my mouth to begin to inquire how Judy was going to fashion her own dog leash, but I didn't have the energy. I swatted the air in front of me.  
"Okay, you go ahead and do that. I'll find it over the weekend."  
"Thank you, Ms. Mooney." Judy said to me, making some spitty hormonal teenager sounds. Boy, was I glad to be over that phase.  
"Alright Judy, good bye." I replied, smiling before throwing the phone back on the receiver.  
"Well, that was anticlimactic." I said to myself, facing ahead of me at the busybody office.  
No eyes were pointed in my direction as I let out a big exhale, sliding my bum down the chair. My feet elongated out before me as I watched them closing, hoping something exciting would happen like they were going to grow a pink hair. I was suddenly bored, losing all desire to work while losing angst over Paul's phone call.  
It'll happen and I'll be around to get it. This is only the most exciting day of his life though, so I imagine how crazy things were right now.  
Everyone in town is buzzing about their adieus today at one o'clock. There'd be a live broadcast of them departing at Heathrow, then there'd eventually be a broadcast of them landing in America.  
I was to be sure to tune into both occasions, pretending like I had a personal connection with all of them. Like I was seeing my buddies on the television.  
Pfft, that's a funny jest.  
Returning back to present day, I decided it was now valid more than ever to award all of this hard work with a refill of coffee from the staff lounge. So I grabbed my mug and prepared to go out and face the real world.

My feet worked ahead of me as I made my way out of the office. I spotted the stack of mail I had dropped on one of my drawers and fetched it quickly. I rifled through the envelopes as I stumbled through the department ones once again. A coupon for _Harvey Nichols, _a coupon for _Marks & Spencer, _one for _Boswells, _and another for _Harvey Nichols. _This is what I'm talking about, all I get are discount offers to stores I've only been in once and never plan to visit again.

So I stashed the coupons on Cherry's desk as I passed it, knowing she was a shopper. As I looked further into my pile of mail, nothing seemed to grab my eye until I spotted the return address written in script. Karen Mooney, 2735 Lemongrove St, Manhattan NY, 646.

My face fell as I read the old address to my old home with my old family. _What _could Karen possibly be sending me? Was it her birthday again? No, she was in August. It wasn't Christmas or Thanksgiving either.

My curiosity got the better of me as I quickly ripped open the seal, eyebrows furrowed. I leaned against the side of the hallway, pulling out a white folded piece of paper. There was a paragraph written out by Karen in that same girly font: "Harper, I know you're probably trying to wrap your head around why I'm writing to you right now since you loathe me so much. And I'm sorry to be interrupting your quant little life in Britain as a cute little journalist behind a desk, but I have news. Do you remember Bradley Murphy? You probably don't since he and Ma started dating a month before you jumped ship, but just last week they got engaged. The wedding won't be for another year though."

The words made me stop reading in an instant, my nostrils flaring as I tried to manifest the concept. Mom was _engaged?! _Mom hasn't been married since our father! I didn't think she would ever get married again after that. He broke her heart and I never thought she'd open herself up to anyone else.

_Bradley? _A part of me did feel bad that I didn't know this man in the slightest. If my mother liked him enough to want to become his wife, then he must be monumental. She had a guard and he broke it, so this Bradley must be more righteous than I could imagine.

I continued to read along my sister's sassy words, mind blown: "Yes, I know what you're thinking now. How the hell did someone convince Ma to get hitched? Well, he's real sublime, Harper. If only you knew. She told me to inform you and I didn't dare ring you on the phone with your unpredictable hours, so here you go. Frame this, it's probably the only notation of our family that you have. Write me back to let me know you got this, since I know you don't have my phone number on record. I love you sister. Cheerio."

I scoffed as I finished reading it, folding it back up and stashing it back in the envelope with a pout on my face. Same old Karen, dramatic as ever.

I wanted to write her back as quickly as I could to rebut some of the things she said. Why is Karen so surprised that I act so detached from them? I hated coming home from school some days, wishing I could stay in the library all night. It was either that they neglected to ask or address me in any way or they'd antagonize me about my interests when I did get them across the table. All while having this aloof mother who, as far as I could see, only paid attention to those who addressed her, which wasn't me. I guess I'd always been detached from my family, even if I was sleeping in a bed on the other side of the wall.

I'm sorry to pour all of this onto you, but my entire life has basically been the chronicles of Harper and Harper herself.

So I couldn't run to the coffee machine fast enough, a frown on my face. It made me angry how appalled Karen was acting. She knew as much as I did that she was the one who drove me away.

As I stood, waiting for my cup to fill up, I felt a presence beside me.

Before I had a moment to turn and face them, Angie started talking. "Hi Harper!" She addressed me, sounding cheerful.

I gave her a side-glance. "Hi Angie."

"How's everything going?" She continued to talk as I watched the coffee shoot out of the machine and fill up my mug.

"I had a half-hour of solid writing just now," I told her, nodding my head. "Just wanted to get some coffee." I motioned to what I was doing.

Angie nodded as I stopped the machine and, once again, filled my drink with creamer and sugar with someone questioning me.

This damned coffee maker.

"Sounds fabulous!" She shouted, her English voice at its prime. "D'ya need any assistance?"

I peeked up at her when she said this, an eyebrow raised. She didn't want to just _assist_ me, I knew this. Angie wanted to know if she could talk to Paul just like everyone else has.

"I'm okay on my own, thanks." My voice sounded rather firm and fed-up, but I didn't worry about it. All of these people wanting to speak to someone I found myself having a hard time speaking to was aggravating.

Angie nodded, smiling like the words had done nothing to her. "Alright, y'know you can ask me if you need to." She turned around and strutted out of the lounge, her high heels clicking against the ground.

Angie was one of the only others in this establishment who was wasn't donning a skirt or a dress-apart from me, that is. Instead, she opted for a grey pantsuit with an essence of green in the stitching. The look suited her very well, I thought as I too made my way out of the lounge. It highlighted the female inside of her while at the same time, framing Angie to appear like the high status woman that she was. She even looked quite younger for the tender age of thirty. Angie, like me, worked her way higher and higher to The Daily Mail top, where she now found herself head honcho of all of the people in here. Yet when it came to the energy as some of these other naive girls, she was an identical age.

When I was enclosed in my small office again, I regained my thoughts and glanced back down at the eye-raising letter Karen had written to me. _Right._

I quickly realigned myself in my desk and dragged my cute typewriter across the desk. I fetched some paper and stuck it in place, making to begin typing my response. This was the first purchase I'd make when I moved down to England. Before I did anything-situate in my new living quarters or even pop by The Daily Mail-I went to the nearest superstore and purchased a new Smith Corona writer.

There was nothing in this world that made me feel so authoritative and respectable. Which is why I decided to respond to my sister's letter using one! Just the thought of impressing her was a little exciting, no matter how much I wanted to ignore that.

"Karen- I won't deny that I was surprised to see that you had written me. I'm sorry I don't keep in touch more than I do, but you must know why. I moved to England for a reason, didn't I? By the way, I love it here, thanks for asking. My job is going real well, in moments like now, you'd wish you were here to see it."

A big smirk grew on my face as I looked back on the allusion I made to the Beatles. If only Karen knew. I wouldn't dare tell her until it was in print and officially not a priority of mine anymore. As well, I was impressed having managed to write all of what I had so far without a single typo. It was an art, clicking all of the right keys, and I had just lately begun to master it. Glad that my practice was making perfect, anyway.

I continued to write: "Obviously, it's very shocking to hear that Mom said yes to anyone's proposal. I knew how hard Dad had rocked her boat when he left and everything; what's this Bradley like? Would you send a photograph or something such as? I'd like to see the magician who wooed Mom as hard as he has. Thank you for informing me about everything and, sincerely, I hope all is well in New York. Did you hear about the Beatles shipping down there? Anyway, no I won't frame your letter, I'll stash it away with the family pictures I have at home. I do have some. Oh, and please don't write to me again, I hardly check the post and it's miraculous I got to your letter the day after it arrived. Phone me at home at 760.1297. Cheerio, - Harper."

I pulled the finalized paper out the other end of the typewriter and pat my back. This was good, I felt good about it.

Naturally, I folded it and slipped it into a beige coloured envelope I had stashed away in my hopeless drawer, along with a stamp. Then I scribbled her information as well as my own, making my way back out of my office. I was moving around so much today, I think you could call this a decent workout? Whadaya think?

I slid my tongue along the thin layer of glue on the envelope, securing it firmly with my thumb. I was satisfied with myself and everything I have pulled out of me as I bounced back over to the mail slots by the front desk.

Pulling out that iconic mail key, I strolled into the midst of the lobby and looked for #27. I tried not to grow aggro as I, once again, met my match with this key hole. When I got it open, I stuffed away the letter to America with a kiss and slammed the door shut behind it, flipping the little red flag down on the outside of the slot. Ready to be sent off!

Buddy Holly and The Crickets were running through my head as I made my way back to the sanctum you could call my second home. That was until lil old Nancy spoke up to me and thus interrupted 'That'll Be The Day' with her squeaky voice.

"Oy, Ms. Mooney!" She called out to me, a distressed look on her wobbly face. "I just forwarded a call to your line-it wasn't that girl this time!"

Her words stopped all the thoughts running through my head and replaced them with panic. _Was Paul ringing me right now? _I checked my leather wristwatch just then, rushing to the ringing phone in my quarters. The time was quickly reaching noon, so I wouldn't be surprised if this was him.  
Plus, Nancy said it _wasn't _Judy and who else would ring me? I couldn't get to my office in speedier time and grab my indeed ringing telephone.

This time, I didn't even bother to sound like I was cooler than I am. "Hello!"

The voice on the other line wasn't the one I was expecting, but it wasn't one that I was upset about. "Hullo? Is this Harper?"

My jaw dropped. It was George Harrison.

"Yeah," I said slowly, trying to understand what was going on. I was punch-drunk. "Is this George?"

He made a light-hearted laugh on the other line. "Yeah, I hope you don't mind much." George said. "Paul done scribbled down 'call Harper at noon' with your number and laid it on the telly." He explained to me as I sat there and digested it, my cheeks flushing brightly.

George continued to speak through the phone. "So I did the honors for him." He made a sound like he was grinning.

"Okay," I said, letting out a nervous laugh. This was odd and unexpected. But, hey, I wasn't complaining. "Well, how're you then?"

The fact that George Harrison had rung me was interesting. I typed him as the reserved person that you had to surround yourself with enough times to unlock. Yet here he was, talking to me on the telephone. It made me grin, George was a cool man who proved to be unpredictable.

The slight disappointment I felt when I realized it wasn't Paul who answered all but diminished. This was George Harrison of the Beatles! I considered typing another letter and shipping it to Karen with "PS I'm talking to your celebrity boyfriend over the telephone right now, can you guess who?"

"It's fine." George said, sighing. "Rather hectic. We're all at Brian's kickin' time around while he deals with everything."

"But are you not just _enthralled?!_"I asked him fervently, pulling my knees up against my chest on the chair.

"Yeah, it's brilliant!" George responded with the same amount of zeal I had expressed. "Bloody brilliant."

"Bloody." I stated, taking a second to dissect that word in my head. "Why do all you English folk say that?"

He made another laugh on the phone, continuing to blow my mind with this apparition that was not an apparition. "I dunno, it's our slang. Why d'ya Americans talk so weird?"

His question brought me back to the discussion I shared with Paul the day before about English versus American tongue. I guess it was a pretty relevant question to the English, why we all annunciate our words so differently from theirs.

"Okay, it's not _that_ weird!"

"Yus it is," George said, sounding satisfied with himself. "Even what you just said there, _'it's not that weird' _was irregular sounding."

"Not irregular to me!"

I had to admit though, with the side-by-side comparison, George's natural English tongue sounded loads more graceful than my Yorker tongue. Which brings me back to the reality that the members of the Beatles have the most lovely voices no matter what falsetto they're at.

"It's just cause you're an outsider," He said, snickering. "Why'd you make the big move from the states anyway?"

I sighed, searching the remnants of my jumbled memories from a year ago. "It was time for me to take my life into my own hands, I guess. I wanted a big change of scenery and England offered that for me."

"That's awesome." He said, sounding intrigued. "I'd never be able to move to a different continent on my own."

"Yeah, well, my family life wasn't the best either, so." I shrugged, my eyes on the telephone cord as I pulled it back and forth, watching it sling back in and out of form. "My sisters and everything."

George sighed at my words. "At least you had siblings."

I was about to speak back to him, amazed at the smoothness of this conversation when there was some ruckus over his line.

It sounded like a door had slammed followed by some loud yelling. George shouted 'sorry!' to the voice, until it came closer and I realized it was Paul.

"Give it to me, George." He said, his loud footsteps reverberating over the line to me. "Whut did you even say to 'er?" Paul snapped at him as there was a position change like George was standing up and handing the telly over to his bandmate.

I just sat there, silent as a vegetable, as I listened to the exchange between the two Beatles. How odd.

Finally, I heard Paul's voice up against the phone. "Harper!" He said, sounding delighted with himself as I made out some scuffling noise in the background like George was departing.

Good bye, George Harrison. It's been nice.

It didn't take long for me to switch gears as I grinned, beginning to chat with the Beatle I've so far as familiarized myself with. "Hi Paul!"

"Sorry bout George, I didn't know he'd ring you." He said, his words meshing together in that thick accent intermingled with the fast speed of his talk.

I gave a laugh, shaking my head. "Tell him I say have a nice flight, would you?"

"Aw no," Paul said, sounding whimsical. "You don't like him more than you like me now, do ya?" He made out like he was simply jesting, but there was an undeniable factor of seriousness in his voice that I tried to avoid.

I rolled my eyes to him, making a 'pfft' sound out the corner of my mouth. "Don't flatter yourself!" I added in a laugh to ensure that he knew I was joking.

He took it with a grain of salt. "Shucks, I won't."

"So, how're ya feeling?" I asked him, my voice heightening with energy.

That's when I realized if one person in my work department happened to see me with a phone to my ear, I'd never hear the end of it. So I turned my entire chair around to face the back of my office as Paul spoke to me.

"Great!" He shouted, sounding just as excited. "Brilliant!" There was that English slang again.

"I'm so excited for you all! I'll be sure to check in on the television." I grinned, peeking down at my shoes and running a finger up and down the leather.

"Good," Paul said, a grin appearing on his face as well. I could tell. "Especially when we arrive in your home turf."

"Whoop," I said, trying my best to sound happy for him about it. "That'll be nice."

Then I shook my head at my behavior. I actually loved New York, it was a radical place to grow up. There was so much to see and so much to be a part of, at times I missed it.

"Maybe I'll stop by your family's house." Paul began to laugh, making me frown.

"_Funny!_" I shouted sarcastically, only making his laughter more extensive. "As long as you keep your distance from them, you'll have a jolly time."

"Ooh," He said, mimicking me. "A _jolly _time, hm?"

Aw darn, I was hoping that was part of the English slang. I threw in the towel and gave him a bashful giggle, hitting my palm against my forehead. "Whatever, forget I said that!"

He took this opportunity to continue to egg me on, making the infamous popping sound with his mouth.

I audibly groaned at him through the phone. "You _bugger!_"

"Aw, that hurt!" He simpered, his voice exaggerating to lengths like a school boy's would.

_Pop!_

"I'll drop the line on you!" I threatened to him, wagging a finger in the air that he couldn't see as I expected him to make a smile that I couldn't see.

"M'sorry," Paul let the remainder of his laughter spill out until he continued. "Whatta bout you, how's your day treating you?"

"It's been fine," I nodded my head. "Wrote a whole bunch for the article!"

Paul perked back up at this, sounding engrossed. "Really? Tell me!"

I didn't let him continue like this for long as my sweet smile was replaced by a rather sly one. I narrowed my eyes. "No way!"

"C'mon!" He shouted out to me, sounding invested. "Just a little bit, I wanna know!"

I bit my lip before deciding to let one thing slip. "Okay, I'll say I've quoted you already."

"Aw!" Paul sounded intrigued, continuing to try and get some info from me. "About what? _Aburgine?_"

His allusion to our first conversations when I asked him about his favorite colour made me laugh out loud. "Mr. Creative!"

He began to laugh along with me as I pictured his beautiful slanted eyes squeezing shut. "Ms. Dramatic, as I recall!"

"No, I didn't write about that," I shook my head, grabbing the telephone cord once again and wrapping it around my free hand. "It's something else."

"Good," Paul settled down, sounding content with my words. "That's our little thing."

My cheeks tinged rose at his words as I tried to push it away in my mind. Then I remembered the letter I received and realized how badly I wanted to share it with someone. "Oh, you know what?"

"Whut?"

"My sister Karen wrote me and I got it in the post today. I guess my mother is _engaged _to some man named Bradley!"

Paul seemed as surprised as I had. "Your mum?" He repeated, sounding rather confused. "I thought she was still hung up on your father!"

"Me too," I sighed, releasing the telecommunication cord and watching it spring out. " I guess I'm really out of touch. I don't even know what this man sounds like, I don't think."

"You should go visit them," He spoke and when I started to groan, he continued to push the idea. "No, Harper, really. You do have a family no matter how badly you try to block them out."

My groan turned into a sigh as I realized the chum was right. As much as I _did_ want to block it out, he was right. "Ah, I know."

"I wish you could come with us!" He said, sounding hopeful until the reality in which that won't be happening manifested in our minds.

"I feel like I should get to know this Bradley, anyway." I continued to heave about the family situation I was faced with today.

Paul agreed with my words, making a shifting noise. "Especially if he had gotten your mother to wear an engagement ring."

His words shocked me as I opened my eyes widely. Paul totally knew everything about my mother and my father and about how she would never go on a date; that was shocking. Had we actually grown to know that stuff about each other, that intimate stuff about each other? I myself knew about his mother's accident and about his father sticking it out for him.

Wow.

"Whatever, I guess I'll have to face them one day." I sighed, leaning my head against the back of the swivel.

"You can always write to me, y'know." Paul spoke up after a pause in conversation. "I'd really like you to, anyway."

"Really?" I asked him, digesting the words slowly.

"Yeah," An essence of a laugh was present in his voice. "I dunno if we can talk over the transatlantic phone without it costing a million."

He said exactly what I was thinking as I laughed.

"But I love our conversations." Paul continued, sounding like his voice was drifting away in the lackadaisical tone. "I don't want them to stop, especially when I'll be in New York."

"Send me postcards." I told him, spinning my chair back and forth with this rush of giddiness which I tried not to cross over to my voice.

Paul shouted out a yes, sounding sure of himself. "'Course!"

Then, in the midst of this great thought I was about to tell him, there was some more ruckus on his line-louder. It sounded like a hoard of people rushed into the room, shouting and moving about.

An affirmative smile came on my face as the realization hit me. They were on the go.

Paul made an audible grunt at all of the commotion, his voice heightening to a whine as it sounded like he tried to cover the phone with his hand. It only slightly muffled the fracas.

"_C'mon, I'm on the phone_." Paul complained to a figure that was quickly revealed to me as Brian Epstein as he spoke back.

"What the hell are you talking about? We've gotta _go_ now!" His elder English tongue was distinct as I sat on the other line, intrigued by everything.

I wish I had a bucket of popcorn with me right me.

Paul muttered a few swear words before his voice clearly rung out on the line again. "Harper," He began, but I said it for him.

"Go! Go to America, Paul!" I chuckled, a wide beam on my face. "Go!"

"Ah," Paul laughed along, making some shuffling noises. "Wait."

I waited with my eyebrows raised as he continued. "Could I send you some mail to your address? Your work?"

"I'll give you both. I can only access my work mail on weekdays though, keep that in mind."

Paul was way ahead of me, sounding prepared as he beckoned me to give him the locations.

I told him the two addresses and made him repeat them back to me to ensure that they were valid.

Once that was over with, I knew we had to say our goodbye's.

Paul addressed it first. "I'll write you! Write me too, would you?"

I nodded before realizing he couldn't see me. "I will."

"Grand," Paul let out a chuckle featuring excitement and nerve. "I'll miss your voice."

"Go, Paul!" I threw an arm in the air, waving it around. "America is calling!"

His excitement heightened as he responded to my words. "Okay! Write me."

"Okay," My grin never faltered as I heard the bustle of people in the background. "Give me a shout out on the television."

"I'll throw you a wink!" He agreed as we both giggled to each other, high on this fate.

Just hearing him so enthused made me enthused as well. Excitement can prove to be contagious, my friends.

"I'll look for it," I twiddled my thumbs together, knowing this bit of interaction was about to end. "Cheerio, new friend."

"Cheerio, Harper." Paul shot back to me in a light-hearted fashion.

He made a popping sound with his mouth, laughed, and then the line went dead.

After clicking the phone back on the receiver, I just sat there in my chair. Then, leaning my head back against the cushion, I wondered what on earth could be happening there right now. The Beatles were going to America, a departure which I knew would mark February 7th, 1964 in history. I'm flustered to get to know them a little more than the average fan would.

It must be nice to have a direction to follow. Something needed to happen in my life outside of walking my dog and scribbling onto a pad of paper every day...

Maybe I should go visit my mother, sisters, and _Bradley_ in New York. I was ravenously curious to see what this man was about. I think I had met him once before while I still resided in the states, but I guess he didn't leave that big of a mark. Or I just didn't allow him to because at that point in my life, I was just so fed up with my family that I didn't even care what happened to them.

Am I an ass? Probably.

The tumult outside of my glass doors became relevant as I watched everyone hustle down the hallway towards the staff lounge just then.

I already knew what it was about before another second passed by.

Cherry appeared soon after, peeking her crimson red head into my office. "Harper, come watch your best friends." She smirked, turning and following the rest of the crowd.

"Funny." I spat sarcastically at someone again today, nevertheless arising and making to join everyone else as well.

When I surfaced down the hall and eventually into the staff lounge, everyone was huddled around the television.

There was a woman with dark hair and a peacoat on, speaking into a microphone. "Any moment now, the Beatles will be pulling up to board their plane to New York USA this afternoon." Then it shot to the masses of fans around, all holding "We Love The Fab Four" or "UK Loves the Beatles!" Some of the "Paul McCartney 3" signs made me blush as the reporter continued to talk.

"Fans have been waiting since last night to get a glimpse at John, George, Ringo or Paul. It's a very eventful day for Britain." I continued to watch her for a few minutes as there was more films of the hundreds of people around and interviews with a few of such fans, until the car pulled up.

Everyone in the office froze while everyone on the television screen went mad. In a moment, their car was _covered_ in people, all trying to get a glimpse at the boys.

My eyes widened at the spectacle as I noticed a few people glance over at me in that moment. But I couldn't keep my eyes away from the screen.

This reporter managed to hold good ground as tens of security guards came up and cleared the path, pushing all of the obsessed fans and photographers behind a huge gate. Then they emerged and it was impossible to hear what this struggling reporter was saying as the crowd went wild. Nonetheless, we all watched as John and his girl Cynthia primarily emerged, followed closely by Ringo who was waving like mad. They were both wearing the biggest beams on their faces as George exited third, looking just as blissful. The three of them approached the reporter but simply smiled and waved at us viewers on the other side of the lens.

I found myself smiling back at them as the people in the staff lounge around me chattered happily.

Then, finally, Paul exited the car, only doubling the sounds of the screen. That same beam that I imagined plastered on his face over the phone was still relevant as he stood still for a moment, taking everything around him in. The camera panned to all of the fans behind the gates who had their arms extended as far as humanly possible, tears pouring down their faces.

It panned back to Paul who at last made a move for it, throwing a wave to everything and everyone he could lay his eyes on. I watched the TV closely as Paul scanned over the reporter in the crowd before doing a double-take.

He ran over to her as she prepared for him to actually say something. But instead, Paul dashed right up to the camera lens and, with his face inches away, gave a big wink.

**A/N:**

**Aw, yay! Hoped you like this chapter, the next one with be in **_**PAUL'S POINT OF VIEW!**_** Are you as excited as I am?! STAY TUNED! Comment and let me know what you think! Love you all :) 7.21.14**


	5. Chapter 5

**PAUL  
*****

"We can always turn around and go home again if no one likes us." John cackled, laying a hand on his wife Cynthia's leg as he brought his eyes up to hers.  
We all laughed at his words, though the undeniable possibility that he was right loomed in our minds. It was the question none of us had the answer to, one that scared us all to great lengths: would America accept us or would they shun us off back to Britain for good?  
For four years as a group and for ten years myself, the dream of finding some kind of success was always an endeavor. At least it seems as though we've attained that level of success in our hometown. Though to fully become the band that the Beatles strived to become, our music would have to hop the English border. Harper did give some insight about our tunes over there and how they'd seeped into the transatlantic radio. Even her sisters bought our records, which was reassuring. Yet the idea that we would waltz into this new country only to be faced with deadpan reciprocation would not leave my mind.  
When the pilot announced overhead that we were beginning to descend into New York, USA, the plane let out a cheer. The sophisticated vibe that had felt almost like a cocktail party with all of the press along had lost all of its edge as everyone gave each other excited side-glances. Brian was standing off to the side, looking stone-faced, but the intense stare he'd directed outside one of the windows led me to believe he was just as curious with what it'd transform into as the rest of us were.  
Collecting all of my thoughts, I flicked a finger to the glass windows and smashed my face against the side of the airplane. I wonder if Harper had noticed my wink to her on the television? I wonder if she was even watching it? With all of the reporters lingering about, she could've been watching another broadcast from another reporter. I just ran up to the first one that I had laid my eyes on and I'm hoping her eyes had laid on mine as well.  
Harper, my new mate from New York! The one I'd met only a mere few days ago but had already considered a pal of mine. There was something about her that I had found rather intriguing. Her cultured background and insistence to distance herself with what was making a detriment to her life; her intelligence and career. Plus it was also nice to talk to someone who wasn't George or John or Ringo, that was the long and short of it.  
They were reasons why I continued to give her a ring over the telephone and what I hoped was why she continued to answer them. We'd even gotten to a point of intimacy in our conversations. I'd confided into her about my mother passing away when I was fourteen; she told me about her father leaving her family even before she was able to comprehend it. It'd only been a few days, but I felt like I could trust Harper with this information anyway.  
In no way could I see her bragging about herself to her girlfriends-it was unlikely that she'd boast or whatever about our telephone chatter. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to learn the only folk who knew Harper'd done interviewed all of us were her coworkers. She was speedily becoming a confidant who I could see making a dent into my future, one that I wasn't about to avoid. That's why I couldn't lose contact with her over while I'm off here in America. Two-and-a-half weeks is a suitable amount of time for Harper to lose interest in me and never give me a nod again. That's why I checked to ensure I still had the slip of paper with her addresses on me. It was folded into my pocket safely where I was sure it would stay.  
Just then, in my trance, I noticed the white clouds and blue skies that had grazed the surface of this airplane were replaced by brown and red suburbs. Then the suburbs matured into large buildings and that's when I realized we were landing in America. My eyes widened as I shot up from my chair, trying to take in as much as I could. Little moving dots for cars were becoming visible as much as the big green piles of trees were. I couldn't believe it.  
On the opposing side, everyone had their gazes up against the windows that were to face the landing pad of this much awaited airport arrival. Myself, avoiding the _'seatbelt mandatory' _sign, hopped up from my seat and made to join the others.  
Then, all of the inklings of rejections we were expecting had diminished as the place we'd all be taxied off on entered view. My jaw dropped.  
John, again, vocalized all of our thoughts. "Oh, my God, look at that!"  
It appeared as 'Beatlemania' all over again but, to me, it seemed bigger, louder and crazier. Maybe it was just the bird's eye view, but I couldn't believe how America was accepting us.  
The others started shouting swears and "Oh God" to each other as I got a closer look at the scene, awestruck. This _couldn't _all be for us! We were just an irrelevant bunch of Scousers a few years ago, now we'd affected America. I let out a loud scoff, a big beam forming onto my face. I screamed, throwing my head against the plane seat's cushion, absolutely jumping with excitement.  
Brian was the only one who kept composed as he called all of our attentions, reading aloud the itinerary that none of us could give a care about right now. We hadn't even stepped foot into the solid ground, but USA had already accepted us. That endeavor I'd been striving for for the past decade was becoming a lot more reachable as I manifested this situation.  
Bloody hell!  
The plane eventually stopped and we had officially landed, the collective shout _"We love you, Beatles, oh, yes, we do" _becoming muffled behind these penetrable walls. With all of my energy, I longed to jump out of here and shout back, letting them know we loved them just the same.  
Brian tried once again to discuss events that did not pertain to the current moment and I couldn't stand to listen to another word. "Brian," I shouted to him, holding a hand up in the air. "Later, mate, please later."  
We all arose from our seats, vibrating with excitement to exit this airplane and face these Americans that I found myself in love with. I watched George with the largest grin on his face, one that only saw the light of day to situations of this caliber, and shook his shoulder. He nodded his head back to me, his cheeks tingling red as I followed him to the exit. John wedged himself in between us, fetching his overhead bag as mine was already clutched in my hand.  
I licked my tongue over my pursed lips, my eyes on the door that had yet to be released. I watched closely as Neil Aspinall, one of our road managers, did the honors. Immediately, I actually yearned for him to close it back again. The screams of jubilation were deafening.  
George let out a loud huff-I think- as he poked his head out of the doorway as some of the airport workers began to pull a staircase to hold against it. From behind, he waved his arm around to them, making me immensely jealous of him.  
That staircase couldn't reach us any faster and, with John before me and Ringo behind me, the Beatles stepped into American air for the first time.  
I threw an arm up in the boisterous air, showing off my grill to the crowd. Just when I couldn't think it could be any better, I noticed a whole separate building of people beside the terminal, a few stories packed with fans. _Our _fans.  
"Holy," I mumbled to myself, almost tripping over the stairs I was descending, my eyes wide as saucers.  
People were holding "We Love The Beatles" and "Beatles Forever" posters here and there. I was bashful to see that others were waving "Mrs. Paul McCartney" signs as well. It was all absolutely awe-inspiring, in the mildest respects.  
John turned around and gave me an exhilarated look that expressed these thoughts exactly, heaving a deep laugh. "Holy fuck!"  
I laughed back to him, slapping my hand on his shoulder as he turned back and made to hop off the staircase.  
George was the first to step a Winkle Picker into American soil and I watched with envy. No, it wasn't his first time, but this time things were different. His extended hand was still straight up in the air as George waved it around, taking everything in. It brought a little smile onto my face; I'm glad George was still around after everything with Stuart and Pete.  
Soon, all four of us were standing there, staring at this fate doe-eyed. The press started circling us and we didn't stay in that spot for long, people ushering us into the airport.  
I waved to everyone I could, grinning ear to ear, when we piled into the terminal area. The chaos did not subside, however, people were still buzzing everywhere. Though I finally tried to pay my attention to a frantic looking Brian Epstein, trying to read off this dangly clipboard in his hand. I stuck an ear closer to him so he hadn't had to struggle for his voice to be heard so badly. There was something mentioned about a press conference and my question was validated as the four of us were then transposed up to a platform.  
The urgency to fix my tie became relevant as we stood there before a throng of press, long tall microphones before all of our faces. Maybe if I looked hard enough in this mound of journalists, I just might spot Harper. The thought made me smile.  
Nevertheless, this was all happening so quickly and we were all stunned out of our minds. The noise traffic was so immense that John, the only one with a voice throughout all of this, barked at everyone to shut their yaps.  
That's when things settled down, no one looking to push John Lennon's word, and that's when we started answering their questions. Maybe it was our uncomfortable feeling with so many people taking our photograph and asking us questions, because we answered rather to the point: "What's your ambition?" "To come to America." "Do you hope to take anything home with you?" "The Rockefeller Center." "What do you think of Beethoven?" "I love him, especially his poems," spoke a blunt Ringo.  
I started to laugh into the microphone at the obscene comment and that's when people addressed me: "How're you feeling, Paul?"  
"Good." I responded, handing the reporter a budding grin.  
Our witty answers were leaving them at a loss for words and the press conference ended as quick as it had started.  
We loaded into these large posh Cadillac's from JFK to the sensational Plaza Hotel. When I blindly told Harper that's where we'd be staying while in New York, there was a silence on her line. When we pulled up to it after minutes of watching the scenery beyond these leather rimmed windows, her silence was explained. Never before had I stayed in a hotel to such a regality, my father would be gobsmacked at the sight of it.  
Getting out of the Cadillac and into the hotel proved to be an operation, the ratio of fans from the airport compared to here equal. I found myself blushing as I acknowledged all of these people who've more than acknowledged us. A few seemed to be crying, which struck me as quite radical, their arms stretched out to try and touch us.  
It was quite a spectacle and the only one who wasn't totally consumed in awe was Cynthia, who scampered behind us daintily. It must be scary for her, battling all of this being John's wife. When it appeared that plenty of these teenagers had their eyes set on John; she probably felt like she needed to watch her back.  
I decided to move along for Cynthia's sake, giving a grin to the screaming people before we all entered in the extravagant hotel.  
Ringo let out an audible sigh, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. By the look on his face, it seemed as though the first thing Ringo wanted to do was crash out in a bed. I was more intent on using the loo, but bottom line, none of us felt so kindly to lounging around the lobby and acting like the extremely diplomatic lads from England that we weren't.  
Brian walked ahead of us once we made it into the empty foyer. My curious eyes scanned through all the nooks in sight; everything about me was fueled by undeniable awe. This was bloody brilliant, it was!  
Mal Evans laid a thick palm on my shoulder, appearing to my left. "How's it feelin'?"  
I pulled my eyes away from the celestial arm chairs to give him a look of acknowledgement. "Damn, Mal, that's a loaded question."  
All seven of us putzed over to the elevators a moment after Brian fetched a key from the front desk. It was as dazzling as the rest of the hotel.  
The walls were donned with mirrors so I walked up to one and took in my appearance. The little bags around my eyes were rightfully there from the aftermath of that fourteen-something hour flight in.  
With this, the reality of which I was now standing in the moving elevator shaft of _another continent _had dawned on me.  
"Anyone got the hour?"  
"Around 7 am." Brian told me, muttering from his wristwatch. "7:24 am."  
As I retimed my own watch, Ringo rung out sounding rather astonished. "The next day?"  
"Yes, you dunce," John spoke to him, sounding as snide as ever. "How long did you think that trip was?"  
"Touché." Ringo said, bumping his head back against the mirror-on-metal walls.  
When we'd been standing in this elevator for several long minutes later, Ringo spoke up yet again. "Whut floor are we, anyway?"  
"30th." Brian muttered intelligently, gazing up at the ceiling.  
That's when George rose his thick eyebrows. "Never been on a floor this high."  
"Would you calm down, Brian?" John shook the shoulder of our stiff manager. "C'mon, we're in New York!"  
"For business," Brian added quickly but, after we all looked at him to give us some grief, he did. "Alright, I'm sorry. Just want to make sure e'rything is perfect."  
"It will be, Brian." I tried to give him my best assuring grin. "Now, don't worry too much."  
The steel doors zipped opened just then to a hallway with three doors. The largest was laden with a "**PENTHOUSE SUIT**" plaque in gold. Just the sight of it made me go_ 'ooh'._  
The silent man accompanying us in the elevator took the lead just then, scurrying ahead with a door key in his hand.  
He began to speak to us as we all stumbled behind him with our handbags. "I hope the suit fits all of your admentities." The man called Charles grinned at us, opening the grand doorway. "The Plaza Hotel is pleased you're staying with us."  
At the sight of the place, I nearly dropped my bag.  
It even provoked a quote out of Cynthia, who was otherwise silent. "I didn't realize you all were so famous."  
She made Ringo and I laugh as the others all dashed inside, screaming '_hooyah!_'  
It was all so grand, there were magnificent paintings which probably cost more than my dad's flat in Liverpool; the vases and flowers on the ornate tables were brilliant as were the marble counters in the loo.  
There were bedrooms to either side of the entrance where people were already staking claims. I could make out John and George stomping around on the beds, cheering with elation.  
All I really cared about, however, was New York City. Without haste, I dashed to one of the huge windows and stuck my nose against the glass.  
What I saw was bittersweet. On one hand, the streets of this city were full of people holding signs with our names on them, shrieking our names for as far as I could see. It didn't seem like we could do much sight-seeing, which was a loss. I was excited to see the Statue of Liberty and tour along Times Square like Harper had told me so much about. She made it sound as magnificent as she was and I'd be real bitter if I didn't get to see that.  
I subconsciously verbalized this disdain to myself and was startled when George responded, sounding out of breath. "So, you're still talking to her then?"  
Regardless of how he had taken me off guard, I kept my face crammed against the wall. "Yes."  
"Who's he still talking to?" John rung out from behind, his words also coming out as a pant.  
"Harper." George answered for me.  
"Who's Harper?"  
"Harper Mooney," I turned around to clarify to John, slouching against the pane of glass. "The journalist who interviewed us the o'er day."  
John looked at me with his eyes peeled before widening them in realization. "Yes, the cute blonde one." Then a sly smile appeared under his long nose. "Whut're you doing _still_ talking to her?"  
I couldn't deny the red that tinged on my cheeks as I turned my back to him.  
"Nothing, she just needed some more input for the article." I slid a finger up and down the glass, forgetting about everything except for her. I had even gone so far as to bite my lip.  
"Four days later?" He pursued, the tone of his voice sounding suggestive.  
That's when I banged my head, blushing harder at the fact that'd I confessed about my sweet penpal.  
George wouldn't cut me any slack either. "Paul'd prepared a sticky note on Brian's telephone," He began to laugh. "And scribbled to call Harper again."  
John started laughing as George was quick to fully join. "Paul, d'ya fancy the journalist from America?" He came up and nudged me in the ribs.  
Bashful, I slinked away and threw myself on one of the couches while trying my hardest to keep a neutral face. "Who said anything bout that, now?  
Ringo joined the conversation just now as I realized it was only just us four lounging round here. "Whutta bout Jane?"  
Oh, there she was again, _Jane Asher. _It didn't catch my ear so much so when Ringo mentioned her, but when Harper had, I froze.  
In fact, since she brought Jane up in our dialogue the o'er night, I've been rattling my head trying to figure out _why _Harper had been so curious. Moments like that, I liked to flatter myself with the idea that she'd been jealous.  
"It's illegitimate." I simply told my bandmate, kicking my feet up on the coffee table.  
It was not a one-sided thing. Jane and myself both knew we weren't going anywhere with our current partnership, which wasn't much outside of a last minute thing.  
I liked Jane, I did, but I liked the idea of keeping myself on the market even better. Especially if I could be on the market for _someone_. Someone legitimate.  
"Ah, so now you're going after the New Yorker?"  
I shrugged, surprised with the answer I gave them. "_Que sera, sera_."  
That's when I leaned my head against the cushion, my eyes looming the ceiling. "Hey, y'think we could throw 'Hold Me Tight' on the song list tomorrow too?"

***

"You'll never guess what I've just found out." Brian Epstein spoke to all of us an hour after the Beatles's first performance in America at the Ed Sullivan Show.  
We performed all of our 'big hits' and I had managed to throw in 'Hold Me Tight' onto the roster last minute,_ take a gander why_. It was the most exhilarating moment of my life, looking out to a live audience and several television cameras broadcasting to God knows how many other people. I felt like I could do anything and get away with it with all of these people looking to us and eating up every word we shouted out to them. It could be a dangerous sense of power for some people, but I was too excited to realize how many people were present until now. All of this performing for all of these fans gave me a high that I can't hardly begin to explain. But I guess I can say it was a sense of validation that I've done something right in my life-which speaks for itself  
When Brian told us to sit down and listen to him, that was the last thing I had in mind to do. These truly were the greatest days of my existance and I didn't feel the mood to have a business meeting with Brian in the midst of it all.  
Though by the perk in his voice and the smile that threatened to creep onto his face, I knew it wouldn't be just any business meeting.  
"Would you just tell us, Brian?" John grunted to him, leaning back in the chair he was sitting in with an impatient look on his face.  
I idly nodded my head, half of me vested in this conversation and the other half vested in all of those people outside that window.  
Brian didn't quite look to need any more persuading as a fitted smile covered his face.  
This got my whole attention. Brian was passionate and emotional, sure, but in an environment like this where he's got a thousand things on his mind...What could he have to tell us?  
"I've just got word from the TV reps on how successful the broadcast was." He told us.  
The tip got all of us at the edge of our seats, even John.  
"Well, whut is is?" George spoke then, his eyebrows raised at our dramatic manager.  
Brian looked to all of us, his smile turning genuine as he spoke the words that would change our lives. "Approximately 74 million people tuned into the Beatles performance on the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9th."  
Right after he said "tuned into," the rest was barely audible. Collectively, we let out a shout as the idea manifested in our heads.  
George started to laugh, throwing a hand on his chest as he looked utterly overcome with emotion. The other two ran out of the room in hysterics while I sat there, my jaw dropped, as the news _really _manifested in my head.  
_**74 million people?! **_  
The idea that so many people watched us on their television screens all across the globe left me absolutely gobsmacked.  
I looked to Brian almost like I could kiss him. Instead, I opted for a big hug as I squealed out in his neck. Brian pulled away, nodding his head as I threw my arms in the air, running after Ringo and John with this big grin on my face.  
I had an inkling I knew just where they were and when I saw them camped out before an open window, waving erratically at the people below them, it was justified.  
Quick to join them, I practically skipped to the window and feasted my eyes on our fans. They had circled the building, all showing us as much love as we attempted to show them the same. The screaming increased when I saw the light of day, but it couldn't hold it's own to the screams I yearned to let out.  
The three of us shouted and waved to the crowd below, happy to be the reason for their entertainment, and George soon joined us in doing so. Here we were, just a load of improper Scousers who happen to know how to strum a Les Paul and a Rickenbacker, but 74 million people saw us as even more than that.  
Then I remembered something that had just managed to slip my mind after this recent news broke out—Harper. I needed to ship something to the postman immediately.  
With one last kiss to our fans, I slipped back into the hotel in pursuit of a ballpoint pen. When I found one, I ran to my "room" and shut the door behind me, grabbing my composition notebook and sitting on the bed.  
The thought that Harper could've been one of those 74 million people made me grin even more than I already was. I wonder what she'd say if I told her several million plus the live audience enjoyed watching me play my guitar and yell into a microphone.  
She'd probably laugh and ask me if I'd tried a hotdog yet. Or talked to my brother about his weekend. That's exactly why I was so intrigued by her, she didn't seem interested in all of this inane surreal fame happening in my life. Wouldn't you want that person to stick around?  
I didn't hesitate in scribbling my first letter to Harper, one I'd been thinking about all day:  
"**February 9th, 1964**  
**Dear Harper—**  
**After a few days, I can't resist this urge I have to talk to you. To say that you've become a reliant mate of mine is an understatement and I'd like to give you thanks for keeping up with me. How are things back in the mainland? How's your boss Angie? Or that delightful secretary I've become so acquainted with? Have you given any more thought about visiting your mother down here? If you want, I could run by your old home and give her a warning.  
Speaking of which, New York is brilliant! I get that you weren't emotionally settled in this town, but ****_how_**** could you bring yourself to abandon such a lovely environment? Yesterday, we all took a walk down Central Park which was covered in snow but still very lovely all the same. I enjoyed it quite a bit, all of the ponds and trees and benches. It was really very fun. I love New York and I wish I could see all of it, but unfortunately, we're having some trouble getting from point A from point B because of all you adoring Americans. Oh don't call me 'cocky' on that one, Harper.  
I hope you're detecting all of the sarcasm in this letter by the way, it'd be quite bad if you didn't. Haha.  
Brian just broke word that 74 million people watched our playing on Ed Sullivan, were you one of them? I hope so. If only you had watched, I would've been just happy with that.  
But you've got to admit, that's a lot of people. I wish I could talk to you over the phone so you can see how much this affects me. Maybe one day, if we talk quick, I could give you a ring? We'll see, first you need to write back to me.  
By the way, did you see the 'shout out' I gave you to a reporter the day we departed from Heathrow? I hope you have, I don't know if the channel I approached was the one you were watching.  
Were you watching? I'd feel like such a fool saying all of this to you if you weren't, but I know you did.  
How's the article? Anything else you've mustered up that you'll fail to share with me? I hope all is well in that situation.  
This is all so much fun; I wish I had someone else to experience it all with in person. I look at all of this stuff that we do and I wonder what my dad would think of all of it. So glad I convinced him to let me pursue this in lieu of teacher-training college. I know you considered teaching as well. Wouldn't that have been a sight to feast your eyes on, both of us teaching in the same secondary school? Haha.  
Anyway, I'm excited to have a hotdog once everything's calmed down just a little bit. I'm ensuring to get one before we move on off to Washington DC where the president is! I feel like an American. How do you feel about the Queen?  
I've got to go, but I'll be waiting for all of your witty responses. Send it to our hotel in DC and I'll be sure to get it. I miss you, Harper. Hope to hear from you soon.  
Sincerely,  
Paul  
PS, I've taken the liberty to research the colour aubergine and I'm not fond of it. You'll just have to accept that I'm a blue kind of man**."  
A grin bloomed on my face as I looked back at my words, proud of my kept handwriting. I clean up for a woman.  
When I started to fold the paper up to tuck it into an envelope, George had come frolicking in.  
"Paul, what're ya doing?" He asked rather boisterously, despite being as ill as he was just a day ago.  
I guess this grand news could make everything better.  
I hadn't made an effort to conceal what I was doing as I spun around in the swivel chair and grinned. "Writing a letter."  
"To who?" He asked me, his eyebrows raised as George done sat on my bed."To yer father?"  
"No," I continued to fold the lined paper in my hands, standing up. "My American."  
I made my way out of the bedroom and out of the suite in pursuit of an envelope which is probably downstairs.  
George didn't let me get away just yet as he continued to yap in my ear. "Yer American? Who's that?"  
"If you must know, it's for Harper." I told him, tucking the letter away in my pocket as we both reached out for the large oak doors.  
"Harper?" George said in a tone of recognition rather than a tone of inquiry. "D'ya really like her?"  
As we walked out of the room, Mal was quick to join us. "Where are you two off to?" He interjected.  
George answered for me. "He's off to send a post for his Yankee woman."  
"Yankee woman?" Mal repeated, sounding as curious as George had. "Who're we talking about?"  
"Her name is Harper, not _Yankee woman, _and she's real fun." I defended over my shoulder and Mal hit the elevator button a few times. "I wanted to tell her about all the news, y'know?"  
George nodded slowly while Mal handed me a simper. "_Harper,_ huh? D'ya fancy her at all?"  
"No, I don't." I told him matter-of-factly as we then piled into that pristine mirror-laden metal box. "She's just someone to talk to that _isn't_ one of you, how many times do I gotta say that?"  
"Ah, I see." He joined George in nodding, who threw out another comment.  
"We'll see bout that, won't we?"  
"Shaddup, George," I swatted his shoulder as he began to laugh. "And would you stop telling e'eryone with ears? It's private to me."  
"Aw, Paul, don't cry about it." He leaned back against one of the walls, grinning to himself.  
It was several more moments later, Mal was congratulating us for the big 74, when the elevator finally came to a stop at the lobby. Fans were all about, screaming and cheering with their posters everywhere.  
My face fell for a moment. Now I came see how Cynthia got all caught up in this group and had trouble getting back up to us. The guard wouldn't let her through when she said she was John Lennon's wife. I can see why.  
Luckily they were all restricted by some bars, but once the teenagers caught a look at George and I, the strength of the bars was put to the test.  
Mal walked ahead of us as we surfaced against the marble floors. All I could do was gleam and wave to all of them, overcome with the mass of them stretching their arms out to me.  
The girls wearing T-shirts with "I Love Paul" on them made me blush as I continued to make my way to the front desk.  
George had stopped to sign his autograph to a few people and I ran ahead, pulling the letter out of my pocket and stopping right before an employee behind the desk.  
He had a big smile on their face; arms were folded against the table. "How can I assist you, Mr. McCartney?" I _think_ he asked me.  
"D'ya have an envelope for the post?" I asked him with a friendly smile, trying to act natural in this obscene situation behind me. "And a stamp?"  
"Ah, yes," The man grinned back to me, folding his hands behind his back and excusing himself away behind closed doors. I yearned to follow him along.  
Then I turned around and acknowledged all of the fans again, instantly regretting my spiteful words. I watched George nod his head and laugh with some girls, scribbling his name down on printed photographs of the Beatles. He's only on the brink of twenty-one, while I'm twenty-one myself. Ringo and John were twenty-three, I couldn't believe what's transpired for a bunch of _young_ people. I always knew I'd try and make it in music, I just didn't ever picture that to come when I was in my early twenties. The thought made me smile down to my feet.  
Alright, enough with the life evaluations.  
The man was speedy to return, grabbing my attention as he handed me an envelope and a sheet of stamps. I thanked him, grabbing a stray pen from the countertop and fetching both of Harper's addresses from my pant pocket.  
I decided it would be best to ship it to her work address, today being Sunday, and wrote the information to the Daily Mail below a nicely written Harper Mooney in the centre of the beige paper.  
Once I had supplied my return address, I handed the envelope to the man behind the desk who was waiting to toss it in the post.  
"D'ya do priority mail or anything?" I asked him, cocking my neck to the side.  
He looked at me for a moment before nodding his head, forming another dapper smile on his face. "Why, yes sir, is this important?"  
I licked my lips and proceeded to give him a convincing smile, attempting to stifle the inevitable blushing that would appear on my face. "Yeah, it is."  
"Very good, sir." The man turned and made to seal the fate of the letter before I shouted out to him, thinking of something.  
He faced me again, eyes wide, and I stretched my hand back out to snatch the envelope. "One last thing."  
That's when I grabbed that pen from the countertop and took the envelope in my hand, quickly scribbling a smiley face on the back of it below the seal.  
"Thank you." I gave it back to him, a satisfied look on my face. I don't know why I felt that so important, but I felt better that I had done it.  
The man behind the front desk gave me one last fleeting grin before tucking my letter to Harper in a gold mail post, gone out of my reach.  
I watched it for a moment, making sure it wouldn't go flying out of there, before reluctantly turning away from the front desk. I wanted her response right now and it hadn't even touched the light of day yet. It was a good feeling.  
I joined George feeling like nothing could go wrong.

*****  
A/N:  
How do you like it? Even though Paul has a lot of things on his agenda in America, he still makes time for missing Harper! What do you think about how he feels? Soon they'll be off to Miami where Paul is infamously swarmed by girls. ****_Gasp! _****Thanks for reading once again, it makes me so happy! I honestly cheer when I see someone new has favorite'd of even commented on this story! Love you all! 7/29/14**


	6. Chapter 6

_"How long do you think Beatlemania will last?"_

John laughed boisterously at the question, shaking his head behind the silver microphone. "As long as you all keep comin'."

_"What do you like or dislike about America?"_

He was quick to another question too. "We like it all."

"Yeah, we haven't had any dislikes yet." Ringo agreed with him, running his tongue across the inside of his cheek.

George, who had been quiet up until this point, threw in a sheepish response. "Dislike the snow."

His response broke me of my silence as well as I cocked my head to him at my left. "I don't. I love the snow."

The reporters lined before us at the Coliseum shot more and more inquiries at us here in Washington DC. It's the afternoon before the concert today on the 11th of February. It's been four days since our ascendance in America and it's gone by rather quickly, at least for my liking and comfort. We've performed for Ed Sullivan that one night to 74 million, then filmed another set of songs for a later airing at the end of the month. Preparing for this performance here at the Coliseum included, it's been a fracas. We took the train up here to DC, which used to be a regular mean of transportation to me, but even taking a train has made me feel inexplicably different.

This is our third press conference which speaks for itself. You'll never know what any of this will say in a press conference. But I was doing my best to enjoy it.

_"Are The Beatles still number one in Europe?"_

"Well, Europe's got a lot of lists."

"A lot of countries." George added to John's comment.

I didn't hesitate myself. "A lot of hit parades."

_"In England?" _The reported furthered, sounding rather irate.

I couldn't resist a grin at the reaction. It seems like these Americans haven't learned to understand the Beatles's smugness.

"Not in England." I handed them their answer, my eyes beginning to aimlessly search the room. It was chalk full of people here and there, equipped with cameras and press badges. It was a trip and it was even sillier that their cameras were pointed in my direction.

Though I couldn't shake the upsetting _what if _scenario that hid in the back of my head. It brought my back to the question _how long will Beatlemania last?_ I dunno the answer to that and I didn't want to hypothesize what it could be. I will begrudgingly confess that I hope this not be our fleeting fifteen minutes of fame.

Someone asked whom our favorite musical acts were, to which George responded with the one and only Marvin Gaye.

Suddenly I was snapped out of my worrisome trance and turned my head to him once again, furrowing my eyebrows. "You like Marvin Gaye?"

George, seemingly not expecting me to address him in the midst of what's happening, looked at me quizzically. "Yes."

A grin broke out on my face as all of my thoughts were rerouted to something brighter. "D'ya know that's Harper's favorite too." I hardly murmured, patting my hand against the table surface.

John suddenly shouted out in laughter and I soon felt his hand hitting against my back. "Paul's talking 'bout his Yankee girlfriend again!"

His proclamation just about had me jumping up in my seat and swinging a fist in his face. First of all, she's not my _Yankee girlfriend_, she's my companion from America. And if word got out that I was muttering about Harper, I know she'd be alerted. And probably scared off. Hopefully not scared off.

Though I don't think that could happen, actually. We're starting to grow a bond that gives light to the idea that maybe she's not as hesitant to be my friend as much as I think. Since I sent her that initial letter a few days ago, I've already received one in return. Says she's been waiting for me to write. Those words were a little exciting to hear.

"Shut up!" I hissed at John through the side of my mouth, glaring at him through the side of my eye. I didn't want to draw too much attention to the matter.

_"What was that, John?" _One of the people beckoned him to open his big gob yet again. I was hoping this wouldn't happen.

Luckily, however, John seemed to know where the limit lies and kept mum about it. "Just a running gag, s'all."

_"What do you think of America, American girls and American audiences?"_

"Marvelous." Ringo said without missing a beat as the rest of us nodded our agreement.

But then I heard John's voice again. "Paul especially loves American natives."

It was true that since I'd gotten Harper's letter back in the post, I've been yammering on about her and I. I dunno why, I guess I was proud to say that I was talking to the cute journalist from the Daily Mail. Little did I know, John'd use my words in a press conference making it blatantly obvious that I had something brewing with some American woman.

I hope nobody says anything about Jane.

I tried to laugh off his suggestive comment, nodding my head. "As do I love English girls, German girls too."

"He really loves all girls." Ringo jutted in, elbowing me in the ribcage under the table.

I was grateful that he was aiding me in brushing off the particular situation John had created. So I nodded my head with a relieved smile on my face until I waited for another question to be asked of us.

Brian Sommerville, our press agent, made an appearance just then, speaking into a microphone. "In conclusion, there will be one last question from the audience."

I sighed, glad to hear this news. It was nice to get away from all of these microphones after giving these answers that we were careful to keep to the point and avoid controversy. Well, _some _of us were anyway.

The crowd of reporters went cockamamie, all vying to earn the last statement, and John settled that with a wave of a finger to a man in the front.

He grinned graciously as everyone quieted down immediately, not looking for a repeat of John shouting at all of them to shut up. _"What has been your most exciting moment in the last year?"_

His comment grew my full attention as I didn't delay a moment. "There's been a lot of them. You know, meeting the Queen Mother at the Royal Command Performance, being number one in America, coming to America, traveling in..."

"...In America?" Ringo finished for me, causing the whole room, including myself, to laugh.

"We've enjoyed America." I grinned, smiling as I glanced down to one of the black cords, wrapping it around my finger. "But there's been a lot of them, though."

Within minutes, we were ushered out of the Coliseum and into a nearby parked car when I finally addressed John, frowning deeply. I hit him on the shoulder. "What were you doing, saying that stuff up there?"

He blinked at me like he hadn't a clue what I was alluding to.

That's when I hit him again. "Saying that stuff about Harper!"

A light switch turned on in his head as John widened his eyes at me and threw his hands in the air. "I hardly said anything about Harper!"

"You definitely made a spectacle out of it," I refused to quit, crossing my arms across my chest. "I hope she doesn't see it."

"Even if I did make a _spectacle _out of it, why does it matter if she sees it?" John asked loudly, slapping his hand against my own shoulder. "Don't you fancy her like mad?"

I turned and faced him again to see that he, George, and Ringo were all looking at me with the same knowing look. "I don't _fancy her like mad._" I told them.

George was first to comply, shrugging his shoulders. "You do talk about her an awful lot, Paul. You'll just about frame that letter." He held a finger up in the air. "You made a note to call her ten minutes before we left to Heathrow."

I remained silent as George continued to corner me into what I'm too embarrassed to reveal the possible truth.

"Can't argue with the facts."

That's when I eased up a little, having no plans to continue to argue with them about this. "Think whatever you want, but I like having Harper for reasons that you don't understand." I told them all, fixing my gaze out the car window again. "Has it ever occurred to you that I'm just seeking a friendship with someone that isn't you three?"

John spoke up again. "Someone who you yap on about her life in New York and her residing in England and her dog Clyde and her sisters and her boss and the fact that Harper grew up missing one parental figure, need I say anymore?"

His rambling words provoked me to peek another glance at John, eyes peeled. "You're bloody exaggerating it! I don't talk about _all _of that."

He peered back at me with an exasperated look before heaving his shoulders up and down. "Of course not, Paul. I just made up all of that stuff."

Ringo jumped into the equation again, his tone of voice sounding tired. "It doesn't matter. Paul has someone new to talk to, end of that tale. Now, can we talk about tonight please?"

Soon, the three orchestrated a conversation about the performance back at the Coliseum tonight. But my mind was still elsewhere about exactly who you're thinking and the reason why was still very much a question. Even more so, the question John asked: do I fancy Harper? Like mad, I dunno about that. But do I fancy her? It's safe to say I'm captivated by her, definitely more so than someone like Jane.

Damn, why was I feeling like such a young boy? I've never felt this gushy in a while, it's not something _I_ do. Michael's supposed to be the gushy one, not me. So why is that different today? What does this mean for me?

I wrapped my arms tighter around my chest when we pulled up to the Shoreham Hotel. The four of us hopped out of the car and through the masses, before enclosing ourselves in the peaceful lobby area. All the while, my mind was still throwing questions to me that I had a hard time mustering answers to.

George spoke up to me again soon, appearing at my side as we walked towards the elevators. "She likes Marvin Gaye too?" He asked discreetly.

I gave him a double-take, surprised at his words, before eventually nodding a yes. "They're her favorite, second to Buddy Holly."

He gave me a closed grin as George raised his thick eyebrows. "And she likes Jelly Babies and Ernest Hemingway?"

"John Steinbeck first." I grinned back at him, slipping my hands into the pockets of my trousers.

"Hm," George nodded his head slowly as we all stopped before the grey mechanic doors. "I think I like her too."

That's when I peeled my eyes again, turning and giving him a look. "Now you like her?"

He looked back at me, rolling his eyes. "Don't get jealous, you idiot."

"I'm not jealous."

"S'fine." George shook his head before we entered the elevators. "At least you got someone."

John overhearing this started to howl with laughter, shaking me on the shoulder. "Aw, remember when George got his first shag in Hamburg?"

His words instantly sparked a grin on my face as I soon started laughing too. "Hey, yeah!"

John and I both shoved George around in the elevator as he took it with a sheepish smile.

Back in the early sixties when were drifting around in Hamburg, Germany, George took someone home from one of our shows. We all shared a shabby bedroom, everything being so underground like it was then. So John, Pete and I were just feet away from him-pretending to be asleep in an effort to make everything a little less uncomfortable than it already was, of course. He shagged his first woman that night, and after she snuck away leaving George to his post-sex daze, we all gave him a cheer and a shout.

"It was like all of our first time's!" John and I laughed some more about the archives of the Beatles.

Ringo standing off to side, unable to empathize with us, was living proof that that moment was many moons ago-when Pete Best was still around.

I grabbed his head and gave him my best noogie since my little brother. "Aw, s'okay Richie, George's relieved at least you weren't there."

George nodded his head, groaning a little bit. "When's that gonna be in the _past_?"

"I don't think that's a topic for discussin'!" John spoke out in his chuckling.

The rejoicing in the air had me giggling like a school girl all the way into the room of the Shoreham. The elevators opened right into the swanky suite, making me feel even more exclusive.

"Whatta bout you, Paul, who was your first girl?" John encouraged me, a wide smirk on his head.

I made a motion as to zip up my lips. "I don't kiss and tell, mates."

"Yeah, me either," George shouted out, rolling his eyes. "I didn't really have a choice in my situation, now _d'nt I_?"

John ignored him. "Were there ladies before Dot?"

"Yes." I shrugged, giving him a fruitful smile myself.

"She's the only one who'd gotten pregnant though, huh?" John continued to draw on his big mouth as I instantly frowned at the comment—not the first time I've done that to him today.

"Shut up, John." I shook my head; there's no other way to tell him. I knew he'd never censor the way of his talk.

Dot was my girl a few years ago whom I went so far as to give her an engagement ring. I was young—younger than I am now at the time —and I loved her. Then she had gotten pregnant and I felt as though there was no other way for us to go then to get wed as soon as we could. Only then did Dot have a miscarriage and I reevaluated her and I. I broke off our engagement and thus our relationship soon after the devastation with the baby. Looking back, that seems quite like the arse thing to do. But it just wasn't right.

She was really the only girlfriend I've ever had, everyone else had just been a fling—Celia Mortimer, Jane Asher.

I enjoyed having that boyfriend-girlfriend relationship and I really did long to find that confirmation with someone again.

"Okay!" He threw his hands up in the air and disappeared behind a door that Cyn was most likely on the other side of.

Neil Aspinall approached meself (being the only one standing in the centre of the suite) with a casual look on his face. "We don't have much down time, the concert is at 8. D'ya know you're playing after Tommy Roe and even the Chiffons!"

A grin cracked on my face again at his words. I was credited for knowing a few songs by the Chiffons by heart. It was blatantly a guilty pleasure.

I was a bit excited to hear that we'd be performing in the same atmosphere as the ladies, but I'd never dare to release that excitement into the air.

He nudged me and told me to use my fleeting minutes wisely.

I returned to my little bedroom and flopped down on the mattress, my hands behind my head.  
My eyes aimlessly wandered throughout the room. It was decadent, a thick white frame covering the ceilings which were painted a light blue. The walls were the same colour with some elaborate patterns printed atop it; bordered at the bottom it was with an identical frame that released hardwood floors below them. Far more flamboyant than any room I'd ever had as a child.  
It was just my brother, father and I after my mother passed away when I was fourteen. We were all pretty simple; my mother was the designer. Without her around, it was a man's world.  
Except my room was always the cleanest. I like to keep organized and my room was always a sheer reflection of that. While my brother was a hound and my father wasn't as anal, I almost took over as the designer. At least in my own room.

As long as it was tidied, it didn't really matter to me the condition of the other rooms in my house.

None of the other Beatles were like that, or at least to my degree. Especially John who was a slob.

It was—and is—a head ache to share hotels and tour buses with someone as messy as him. He never kept up after things because he thought it unnecessary. You can imagine how that drives the maid inside of meself.

Ringo was the second sloppiest while George was the second cleanest next to me.  
Pete and Stuart weren't too bad, something I really thanked Stu for even in our disgruntles.  
In the midst of all of this cleanliness spiel, my eyes laid on the letter I had received from Harper earlier.

I smiled, reaching out and grabbing it off the tea table.

To be honest, I don't care what I feel for Harper. If I fancy her, fine. I didn't care, it was how I felt.

I slid my fingers over the scrawl, feeling the indents of the pen on the back of the paper and noticing when the ink was bolder on some letters.

I didn't hesitate to read it all over again:

"**February 8th, 1964**  
**Paul—  
You're probably wondering to yourself how I had already responded to your letter. I don't want to make an embarrassment of myself and say that I was waiting for you to write, but I was.  
Everything sounds so lovely and magical—even if it is in New York. No, it really is a lovely city and I'm glad you liked it. Sorry you couldn't go to all of the places you wanted to; how does the price of fame feel to your mind? Haha.  
Was there snow all about? I loved when it snowed, nothing more exciting than seeing little flakes fall from the sky! Especially for an eleven-year-old. Only until **_**I **_**had to shovel that shit out of the driveway after losing rock-paper-scissors **_**every **_**week. Pretty certain it was rigged.  
By the way, before I forget, I did see your wink in the video camera. How smooth of you to go through with, hm? Do you do that to all your "loves"?  
I also noticed how 'Hold Me Tight' into the performance list, how convenient! ;)  
I hope you didn't hunt down my family or rather they hunt you down. You probably signed your name to Lisa's forehead already for all I know. How is it to write your signature for someone? Like for someone who **_**isn't **_**the postman who needs your signature to give you the two months belated birthday package from Grandma. Is it fun? Do you like it?  
I watched your performance on Ed Sullivan, my dog and I. 74 million is a lot of people considering there is 200 million in the United States. Looks like you got everyone there except Washington and California. I'm just kidding. That's so exciting, doesn't it just have you jumping up and down? Oh, I'll have to include that in my article. **

**And yes, the article is lovely! And by lovely I mean it's not close to being done. I'm sorry, it's just there is so much weighing on the success of this thing that I haven't really set anything in stone. I know it's just another documented interview on the stands for you and everyone else, but for me it's a big accomplishment! That being said, you don't get to hear of it until it's final perfected form! Haha.**

**Guess what? Today I was at the park with my dog only to find someone else sitting at the bench that I always condone! I've even etched my name into the wood. So you can imagine how appalled I was to see someone trying to claim the land. I tried to be discreet in walking up and sitting down beside him to try to take over, but then he actually spoke to me! His name is Sam and he said he'd watch me come and sit down at the bench every day when I go walking. Is that weird? I tried to brush it off and act flattered, but what do you think? I need a man's perspective! Anyway, he lives down the street from me and asked if I wanted to start walking with him! He was born in Liverpool, isn't that interesting? **

**Anyway, I just wanted to confide in someone about that.**

**You're off to Washington DC right now, hm? Have a grand time there. Then you're off to Florida after NY again? Wow, what a trip. Which destination are you most excited for? **

**OH, guess what else? I got this really superb grey striped T-shirt yesterday at a shoppe with my friend Cherry yesterday. I love it so much and it was such a bargain! Have you ever picked something up at a shoppe that was such a bang for your buck that it turns your whole day around?**

**Haha, I know I must be boring you with all of my girl talk about men and shopping. It's just nice to talk to someone about it, about my day.  
I really like talking to you too, Paul. It rocks to know that I've made a friend, regardless of who that is. This is all so surreal and silly, but I love it! Don't forget about me in the sea of 74 million.**

**Love from your American,**

**Harper****"**

This time reading her charming handwritten letter, I couldn't remove the frown from my face when she brought up this Sam character. Who's Sam from Liverpool? Sam the Scouser? And he'd been watching her from his home every day she goes walking? I wanted to scribble back to her that that _was _weird and that she had to stop going to that park immediately.

The reasoning behind why I was feeling this is a whole different can of worms.

Besides, with Brian Epstein making a sudden entrance, shouting at all of us to hurry and go back to _where we just were_ I didn't have the time.

This did befuddle me a little bit when I peeked over at my clock. It had been an hour.

Damn, it had been my hour. I've allowed my reading and my thoughts about girls consume my life for an hour. Now I was going to have to be faced with my true reality which was once only my dreams. We have another performance tonight.

I jumped up and looked at myself in the mirror, grabbing my coat strewn across a chair in the process. There was an essence of stubble along my jaw and atop my lip, something of which I'd have to rid soon. It was important that we kept up with the boyish look we have going for ourselves now. For Pete's sake, Brian was trying to keep John's marriage to Cynthia on the down low. I guess it's safe to say that's no longer the case since she accompanied us here as John's plus one, but it just shows how important it was to stay in line with the cheeky British mold the world has created for us.

I don't mind.

Neil, Mal and Brian were all motioning us to get back to the elevator in a quick motion.

I threw them a stink eye. "Calm down, what's the rush?"

"We've got to get there quickly," Brian said, sifting through the papers in his hands. "We're already behind schedule."

"It's been a fucking hour," John shouted, placing a hand on Brian's shoulder. "We have another two until we're on stage, s'okay Brian." He lowered his voice as to reassure our frazzled manager.

I leaned back the descending metal walls and took in the exchange. Brian sighed and looked up to John, nodding. John grew this wicked grin on his face and shouted out in excitement. He was always the one to pull the reigns in on Brian when it needed to be done. And Brian never argued, which was even more miraculous. They had a true legitimate bond, which is something that I'll always be envious of.

My eyes laid on the electronic numbers that relit every second with a new floor number: _18, 17, 16,15..._

"I just wanted to say thank you all for coming out tonight! We appreciate your support!" I found myself screaming into the microphone that I shared with George two hours later. I looked out to the surrounding audience, which was a task in and out of itself given these huge white lights cast down on us from above. We were in between songs to this crowd in every direction at the Coliseum for the second time in a day. I couldn't really see them with the harshness of the lights, but I knew the fans were there given the screaming that I've become so familiar with of late.

John interrupted just then for the I don't know how many timeth today. "In other words, thanks a fuckin' bunch!"

His swearing caught me off base as I lost my composure for a moment, gaping over at him. I could hear George snickering from beside me and, standing there dumbfound, decided to join in on that as well. So I laughed rather nervously to the crowd. "Well put, John. Now we're going to play something that we hope you enjoy. Okay."

I knew I sounded awkward, but c'mon here! Brian would be furious with him, at least for about forty minutes. We all know John'll get off with it from Brian like he always did. Who I pitied for this incident was our publicist Derek Taylor. Though he was always picking up the pieces in these situation; censoring our cursing wasn't a foreign thing to him.

In any case, I was left flustered and tapping my foot on the ground as I chuckled terribly.

John caught wind of this and laughed even louder, pointing a finger at me as he crinkled that long nose. "Such a bloody diplomat." He spoke into the mic.

"What now?" I asked George after rolling my eyes at John.

"Ehm," He mumbled, strumming his pick along his guitar for a moment. "I suppose we haven't a lot of time left since we've burned through almost e'ry song."

John was way ahead of us as he started to strum his guitar to a song I instantly recognized as 'Till There Was You'. I saw him looking at me expectantly and I was forced to quickly adjust to it. This was one of my songs.

It was only a matter of time before I opened my mouth and began to sing: "_There were bells on a hill, but I never heard them ringing..._"

As I sang and listened to the words that I was saying, my mind started to work ahead of me. This was a decent song, wasn't it? I wonder if Harper had ever heard the tune before, it seems like something she'd like.

_"No, I never heard them at all, till there was you..."_

Maybe this is just me tooting my own horn, but wasn't it uncanny that she proclaimed one of the songs that I sung as her favorite?

_"There were birds in the sky, but I never sawr them winging..." _

You don't know how flustered that made me. People in the past had told me it was their favorite, or one of the other songs I sang main vocals to were their favorite, but when _Harper_ said it...

A grin grew on my face as I continued to harmonize alongside George. "_No, I never sawr them at all, till there was you..."_

But what about her, was she thinking about me as much as I was thinking about her? Here she goes telling me about some chap who says he's a teacher from Liverpool and she automatically thinks the world of him? I'm a guitarist in a band from Liverpool, where does that leave me in her book? What if Harper likes the humanities types and not the musicians? She is a journalist after all... I wonder which types she dated in the past...

_"And there was music and wonderful roses..."_

I don't really have a type m'self, really. There was Dot who would've been the poster girl for modern wife-cooks, cleans, watches after the children. Then, I guess, Jane was an actress who was very worldly and didn't fit into that cookie cutter wife mold at all. Harper, so it seems, is a little bit of the both of them. As much as I can see her watering the flowers, I can see her going out on the town for her job in a heartbeat.

_"They tell me in sweet fragrant meadows of dawn, and dew..."_

I think Harper's the most interesting. If I hadn't made that blatant enough.

_"There was love all around, but I never heard it singing..."_

I'm sure my dad would like her too. He'd think she was well on her feet and living a successful steady job. He never outwardly objected to my aspirations of becoming a professional musician, if you'd even go so far as to call me a professional. Dad'd just always worry that things weren't going to be well and I was gonna fall flat on my bum. I can't say I don't blame him, but in any case, he'd like Harper. And my brother would too, just because she's a female.

_"No I never heard it at all, till there was you..."_

I finished my singing bit as George finished off with the final chords to the song. Once he did, I found myself cheering along with the uproarious crowd. Another gig done!

We didn't have much time to linger on the stage as some Coliseum personnel came in and started to clear a path for us to leave through the audience. Once we did, with the blinding light gone, everything was visible again.

The fans were all shouting, their hands extended as far as humanly possible as some were even crying hysterically. I gave them a funny look. What were they crying for?

John saw it too and let out a laugh, pointing at the sobbing girls in amusement. They started to hop up and down when they realized John was acknowledging them.

It made me grin a little bit as I too waved at them before looking around at the others.

Some of the neighboring fans were waving their "**Mrs. McCartney**" and "**Marry Me, Paul**" homemade signs before me, which made me grin even wider. More of a sheepish grin, however. It was flattering, how could I not be flattered? Yet how could I not be bashful too?

I gave them a little wave which they screamed about amongst each other and I forced myself to look away, feeling my cheeks turning red.

I followed the others in suit towards backstage and away from these hyperactive lovable people. We had soon shut the door behind all of that to the backstage area.

Ringo particularly let out a big sigh, thumping down against the big black sofa that maximized the middle of the olive coloured room.

I headed directly to the water bottles, throwing one in George's direction per his request. There was nothing that dried out our mouths more than a good performance.

I flopped down beside Ringo, sucking down as much water as I could. That's when I threw my head back against the cushion, staring up at the sky.

What was next? We're going back to New York, then to Miami Florida? The thought of all this touring made me bite my lip. It was a lot.

On almost on cue, a voice I recognized as Tommy Roe's filled the air. "Who's ready to have a night of no more performances?"

My head instantly popped up.

Tommy was standing beside John who lay strewn out on another sofa. Tommy was looking at all of us with his eyebrows raised and his mouth open.

"Sounds great." Ringo spoke on behalf of all of us, craning his head upward as well.

Tommy clapped his hands together and George laughed.

He was another act at this gig today and in the few short hours we've really become acquainted with him; he was already a pal.

Of course we opened for him in '63, but we hadn't firmly established a relationship with the man till round now.

"What'd you have in mind?" I asked him quizzically, my eyes-wide.

I didn't want to do anything that could provoke Brian and the management any more than we probably had after John's live cursing. Plus, we do have to get to New York tomorrow to perform for Carnegie Hall at night.

He could see that I was apprehensive towards this particular thing and gave me a reassuring grin. "Don't worry so much, mate."

"Right?!" John exclaimed, jumping up in his position. "Paul, you got something stuck up your arse, do you?"

"No," I was quick to detonate his allegation. "Just what is it? I guess I could use something."

"_Cos there's something stuck up your arse_." John mumbled to me as he laid back down to his comfort.

"Well, let's see," Tommy said, looking at all of us with an eyebrow raised. "How many of you are by yourselves?"

"What's that mean?" Ringo asked him.

"How many of you have women?"

My face dropped.

"I do." Ringo said simply, nodding his head. "So does John."

Tommy looked over at both George and I, both of his eyebrows raised this time. "You two, eh?" He turned to me in particular, huffing with laughter. "Can't say I'm not shocked at you, Paul, the ladies seem to love you."

I gave him a curt smile. "Thanks."

George snorted. "Yeah, _thanks._"

"Ah, no," Tommy shouted, laughing at George's unsatisfactory answer. "Y'know what I mean, man. They just about go berserk when he shows his face."

I felt a little bit uncomfortable about the situation and I tried to move it along. "Did you want to take us to a strip club or somet'?"

A grin grew on his face as Tommy silently nodded his head up and down.

That's when I let out a nervous laugh. It was my go-to for uncomfortable situations.

"Well, Paul doesn't want to do that." John spoke up, his head still facing the ceiling before him. "Unless you fly over Harper."

"Would you piss off?" I yelled exasperatedly at him, frowning deeply.

Having him continuously poking fun about my thing with Harper was _annoying. _I wish I had never mentioned her to him, I should've known.

"Who's Harper?" Tommy asked curiously, looking round at all of the boys.

George broke his silence as he grinned at Tommy. "An American journalist who Paul's talking to."

"Ah, she's a Yankee?" I could see Tommy facing me through my peripheral vision as I kept my eyes on my lap. "A Brit and a Yankee?"

"He's in love with her." John snickered again, but I interrupted seconds after his words hit the air.

"She's cool, okay?"

"But you're not in love with her?"

I looked up at Tommy with a blank face. "Are we school girls? No, I don't _love_ her."

He challenged my words. "Then come with me!"

We both stared at each other as I pondered the offer.

Go to a strip club? First, that'd be bad if the press saw me. Second, if the press saw me, then everyone'd see me. _Everyone._

"Forget it, Tom," John said from across the room. "He won't go."

"Okay." I shouted out into the room, continuing to look right at Tommy. "Count me in."

He peeked over at John-who was silent-before turning back to me. A wide simper sprouted on his face. "Brilliant."

**A/N:**

**OOH! What do you think about Paul? Is he trying to convince himself and the others that he doesn't have any romantic feelings for...**_**anyone? **_**And by anyone I mean...**

**The next chapter will revert back to Harper's perspective as she watches Paul through the tiny screen of her television in America! Something juicy will happen next, stay tuned! Love you all :) 8/19/14**


	7. Chapter 7

**HARPER**

I clenched the steel fork in between my teeth, shaking my feet against the floor of the staff lounge at work. My eyes were on the small television that was playing the national news.

A woman with a profound Liverpool accent was speaking to us, her audience, while another picture played behind her.

It was from earlier today of the Beatles splashing around Miami beach in Florida. I cocked my head to the side slightly as I ignored the female Scouser and kept my eyes on the little Scousers behind her.

They were all jumping and splashing around like a bunch of tourists in their bathing suits. The sight had me stifling a giggle as I continued to gnaw on my fork.

It was February 16th, several days since my telecommunication with Paul McCartney and a few days since I'd written him. He'd been writing me long descriptive letters about his travels in America, all of which I've kept near and dear to me. And I've tried to write back to him, answering all of his inquiries while speaking of my own. Though, of late, it's been tougher to do. I've been totally tied up with this fuckin' article. It's set to release on the Sunday after the next. That's two weeks exactly.

And since Angie thinks that _loads_ of time to write an article about the Beatles for all of England area, she has me working on another piece about some little girl breaking a record or _something_. All I know is that I have to interview her later today.

For now, however, I was spending my time watching the boys frolic on a beach.

Then, the reporter woman disappeared and the tiny box enlarged to the four. It indeed showed them splashing around and laughing, then it showed a clip of Ringo being ambushed by women who were grabbing his cheeks and kissing him.

The sight of how uncomfortable that made him broke the serious look on my face. And so I was giggling up until the footage switched to some of _Paul_.

I dropped the fork back on my plate of wilted lettuce drenched in Italian dressing, my eyes staying on the screen nonetheless.

Paul was surrounded by women as well who were all trying to grab him and do the same to him as they were to Ringo. Yet he didn't allow them to get that far as Paul simply chatted with them, laughing. But there were _so many_ of them.

I don't know why the sight perturbed me so much, but it made me feel a little moody. Who did those ladies think they were? Paul wasn't theirs to flirt and touch with.

But neither was I so _why am I getting so worked up._

I cracked a grin to myself, jabbing the fork into some of the vegetables I added to my salad in an effort to be healthy. While more than anything I wished to hightail it over to Wimpy's and have a cheeseburger.

I had the urge to write Paul just this instant after seeing him with all of those girls. It was something that I had over all of them and that made me feel a little superior. It's just, these types of girls on the screen right now with their bums hanging out and their boobs for the world to see were kinds I've dealt with before. They looked to be like the girls who poked fun and taunted me in primary school. The kind who ogled over Elvis Presley and I _know_ would be ogling over the Beatles. The kind that cared whole-heartedly about their appearances and boys. The kind that was never nice to me. Similar to my younger sister Lisa.

The one thing that my older sister Karen and I had in common was that neither of us were as dramatic or boy crazed as Lisa. She had posters all over her room and in her locker of famous celebrities, ranging from indeed Elvis Presley to Marlon Brando and Robert Redford. Just before I departed, she was beginning to add Paul to her list of top men. She always worried about how to get a boy at school to like her and always demanded the coolest clothing and hair colours-needless to say, Lisa was a handful.

I remember for the school dance a few years ago, she came back far past midnight and I was the only one still up (I was a night owl, naturally). So Lisa ran up to me and started gushing about how she and her date had sex and how amazing it was for her, but she didn't think she wanted to be with that boy so it didn't matter. It was one of those moments where I was really considering the whole 'Harper is adopted' conspiracy.

My first time was when I was sixteen years old, actually, and it wasn't Teddy Denby. At least my first time wasn't with Teddy Denby, haha.

His name was Curtis Jones and he was the photographer for the school paper. I was featured in the _school_ paper one day for an essay I had written about the Titanic which was featured in the _professional_ magazine 'The New Yorker'. He interviewed me for it and then we got to talking personally. It was almost like Paul and I, but Curtis moved away to California and I never saw him again a month after we had the sex.

Anyway, he said he really enjoyed the piece and he didn't know anyone else who could write as well as I at our school. A few days after the interview, Curtis told me he had been lusting over me all that time. I thought he was attractive and intellectual as well so, of course, I succumbed to his desires. That was until, of course, he moved to California.

I chomped on a baby carrot, peeking hastily back up at the TV screen.

A clump of fans were surrounding all four of them as the press lingered around as well. They loved it, I could see it in their eyes. Why shouldn't they? It was a real taste of the fame they had so far achieved.

Yet a fire was still burning under my bum.

I scooted out from the fold-up table and closed the container on my salad. I dished it away in the fridge, leaving it for another boring moment in my life before leaving the lounge.

I wanted to write right away! Tell him about how things were over here and how England missed him and that he should come back soon. I dunno, something suggestive like that.

I dunno.

I prided myself for managing to hide from the eye of Susan Eckles as I hurried back to my quarters. She has still been pestering me about that one telephone call with Paul that everyone had noticed. No matter how many times I try to tell her it wasn't a big deal, she insisted to know more about it.

_What does his laughter sound like?_

_What does he sound like on the phone?_

_What were you two talking about?_

_Do you talk often?_

As if I couldn't despise that woman enough.

So, without a bother from her, I slipped back into my office and prepared to write out something to send to my friend in the States.

I decided it'd be more charming to handwrite a letter rather than type it out, not to mention it'd prevent type-o's, so I grabbed a pad of paper and a fountain pen from atop my desk.

I sat in my swivel chair and checked the clock, realizing I had about a half-hour until I had to depart to interview this little girl.

I started without hesitation:

"**February 16th, 1964**

**Paul,**

**Hello there, sorry I haven't sent anything in your way lately. You have no idea the workload I'm dealing with at work. On top of the article we both know of so well, Angie put me on one about an eleven-year-old who won the spelling bee or something. But I want to keep in touch with you as frequently as possible so here I go again.**

**You're in Miami now, aren't you? I saw some footage of you all frolicking around the beach and it looks like such fun! I haven't gone to the beach in a fortnight, let alone one like Miami! I've been to Florida once in the past to visit my aunt. She was having a retirement party and invited everyone in her address book. You can imagine how horrifying of an experience that was for me. The only thing not to like about Florida is the way the air sticks to your skin. Of course, you didn't have that problem a foot away from the ocean to cool you off.**

**But first, before you move on completely, what's your final verdict of New York? DID YOU HAVE A HOT DOG? I just want to know what a diplomatic little Brit like yourself thinks of American grub!**

**Gee, besides work, nothing is going on around here in my life... My friend Sam and I have made a habit of seeing each other in the past few days. He likes John Steinbeck as well and even told me he's a fan of the Beatles. I just said that I thought they were really cool. ;)**

**I have yet to reach out to my family yet about my mother's new groom. Maybe it's because I'm too embarrassed to. This is my mom's fiancée and I only know that his name is Bradley. Not too crazy about that name, by the way, but he ****_has _****to be pretty righteous. What would I even say to my mother on the telephone? "Hey, it's your ****_other daughter _****and I just want to know who the hell you're marrying?" ...I don't know how I'd do about that. It's just weird. Maybe it is my fault for disconnecting regardless of how annoying I think they are. Which, for the record, is exceedingly annoying.**

**I haven't told another soul about this situation with my mother so please don't tell anyone! Who would even care anyway, but just between the two of us. Por favor? Gracias.**

**Tell me things about you, you're far more interesting than I am.**

**Sorry if this letter was anticlimactic.**

**The American,**

**Harper****"**

I squished my cheek against the paper and dropped my pen, letting it roll across the wood and plunging to the floor. I'm so boring. Nothing about that was riveting or made me seem the slightest bit cool at all, I even said that!

I slid a finger up and down the dented paper before absentmindedly glancing at the clock. Eh, probably cutting it close to meet this little girl.

With this in mind, I sat up in my chair in search for an envelope. I found it quickly and used Paul's last letter as a reference for an address to send this to.

As I scribbled it down, the idea that this was becoming so natural came to mind. I didn't feel quite as awkward and out of place as the time I had first wrote his address down. Or when I first heard his light voice over the phone-especially then.

A little smile came to my head as I pat the prepared envelope down against my desk and looked at it. He really was becoming a part of my routine.

In the midst of my reflection of my recent life, someone barged into my office.

"_Harper_, it's important that you get to your interview in order to conduct your interview..."

None other than Angie rung out like she had so many times in the past.  
"Unless you're busy writing letters in the post?"

With her sudden comment came shock and a flurry of panic. I quickly and not-so-discreetly brushed all of the stamps and envelopes and THE envelope into my lap before folding my legs.

"No!" I shouted out to her, ruffling through the miscellaneous in my lap and differentiating them. "I'm just about to go right now!"

There was a silence in the air as Angie tried to figure out how to respond, so I spoke out again for her, standing up with the envelope tucked into an inner pocket of my jacket.

"Look, I'm walking!" I shouted as I also grabbed my tote bag from atop my blue cabinet beside the door. It had all of my questions and information and the address where I needed to be for this little girl.

"Okay." Angie said slowly as I scooted her out of the doorway to close and lock up my office area.

Susan Eckles was on the loose and so long as she knew I had communicated with the Beatles, my office needed to be closed whenever I was absent.

"What's so special about this girl again?" I wondered aloud as Angie and I started towards the entrance doors (and the post stop).

"Oh," Angie spoke up, sounding delayed for a few moments before sharing her knowledge. "She's twelve and an original story of hers is being published."

Her words took me by astonishment as I found myself gaping at the situation. "Really?" That idea was the star of my wildest dreams when I was a twelve-year-old.

"Yeah," Angie nodded her head, looking back at me with an identical facial expression. She seemed to forget about whatever she thought she walked in on earlier and that made me sigh in relief. "Isn't that impressive?"

Before I had the time to agree and curse myself for not looking into it earlier, Nancy the secretary addressed me.

"Harper, there is someone here to see you." She spoke in a monotone fashion as she held one knobby finger in the direction towards the door.

I followed her direction and instantly made eye-contact with Sam Aldridge, my neighbor who I'd become familiarized within the past several days.

"_Right!_" I shouted out once I saw him, throwing my hands in the air. I promised I'd let him accompany him on this one and I'd pick him up at his place! I quickly glanced down at my watch and realized I had taken longer than I meant to.

With that, I peered back up at him with a nervous smile. "I'm sorry."

I didn't expect him to come all the way to my work. He must really have nothing better to do. It was sweet.

He shook his brown-coloured head and gave me a grin as well, one that emanated in satisfaction. "It's alright. I'm sure you were spending your time with something really important."

_Heh_, yeah.

"Who's this, Harper?" Angie suddenly spoke up once again.

She needed to stop doing that, dammit.

"I'm Sam." He spoke for me, extending a hand out to my nosy boss.

Angie looked surprised as she stared at his palm for a moment before placing hers in it and shaking. "It's nice to meet your acquaintance, _Sam._" She spoke and I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not. All signs point to most likely.

He grinned whiter, turning back to me. "Are you ready now?"

"Yes!" I yelped out, even causing Nancy to cock her four eyes up towards me.

I already felt bad enough as it was making him wait all this time! I wanted to break Nancy's specs from making me feel embarrassed.

My cheeks reddened as I nodded, clutching harder to my bag of stuff. "Let's go."

Sam nodded, making to go out the exit before turning and formally bidding Angie a goodbye.

His words made me cross my arms, hearing the crinkling of paper against my chest in doing so. Paul's letter!

My eyes widened this time as I slid my fingers under the lapel of my tweed jacket and firmly clutched the paper. "Hold on though." I held my free index finger to Sam before hurrying over and quickly finding my locker number. I knew I didn't look discreet as I fiddled to unlock the lock-something we all know I have yet to master-and hurriedly slammed my letter to my rock'n'roll star away.

When I scurried back to my friend and my boss, I couldn't help but smile a little in relief. _Phew._

I didn't waste any more time and grabbed Sam by the wrist, pulling him outside behind me with a wave of a hand to Angie. Off I was to go interview a sixth grade published author.

"What's got you acting so odd?" Sam asked as we walked towards my car in the lot.

I crinkled my eyebrow at him, trying to look confused. In reality, I cursed myself for making it so obvious.

See, this is why I'm not an actress.

"What do you mean?" I could feel myself quickening a little as my parked car became closer and closer to view. I didn't want to talk about the oddities of my behavior or how bad of an actress I am.

Or maybe this is just how I act in the presence of a male-odd. That would explain a lot.

"I dunno," Sam spoke in his distinguished English accent. "You just seem rather frantic."

I proceeded to do my best shrug, running around and unlocking the driver's side of my car. "Just a lot of work! D'ya know this girl today is a published author and she's only twelve?"

The topic seemed to draw Sam's good attention as he gave me a matching look that I had given Angie when she told me.

I guess that topic could turn any uncomfortable situation around.

I should try calling my mom and putting it to action.

"Damn." He said and we both buckled our seatbelts.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

"What would she even write bout?" Sam wandered aloud as I pulled the vehicle out of its spot, the engine muffling beneath my feet.

His idea got my mind running as I too pondered the idea. What would a twelve-year-old write an entire novel about? Her first menstrual cycle?

Sam seemed to be thinking the same ludicrous thoughts. "Her first missing tooth?"

We both started to laugh at the comment and I added fuel to the fire. "Learning to tie her shoe?"

"The A+ on her spelling quiz?"

"Getting a valentine from the boy she likes?"

"Braiding her hair for the first time?"

We found ourselves cackling over the what-ifs of this mysterious author. It was all hyperbolized jokes, but it was fun to consider.

Sam was the one to vocalize this thought of mine as we pulled behind what looked to be an endless line of cars ahead of us on the main road. "In reality, she's a hell of a lot smarter that both of us!"

Then we giggled some more until we had both calmed down and found ourselves in a comfortable silence.

Sam and I had only become a part of each other's lives for some days, but it seemed like we were already good friends. His humour matched my own and we found ourselves laughing a lot. His dog Mocha was sweet and already got along with my Clyde. On top of that, he loves chocolate and Z-Cars and is a school teacher. He's the guy next door, I guess.

I was glad to have someone in my life that I could hang out with after work hours.

Mindlessly, I flicked on the radio to the car as Sam and I sat in this stationary traffic.  
I wasn't surprised to hear "When I Saw Her Standing There" immediately start to play.  
I smirked to myself, tapping my thumbs against the steering wheel in amusement.  
"Hey, the Beatles!" Sam sat upright in his chair, going to turn the music up.  
He began to nod his head up and down to the pop music in enjoyment. It even made me laugh a little.  
"I wouldn't really type you as a fan of _this_ particular song..."  
Sam continued to boogie along in his seat as the traffic began to slowly disperse. "It's _the Beatles!_"  
In the midst of giggling over his foolish behavior, Sam's exclamation suddenly churned a knot in my stomach. Look at this guy, he was the kind of folk who would be reading my article with this _I love the Beatles_ mindset. I must make sure that I don't let any of these people down if my words don't hold the capacity to the image of the "Fab Four".  
"What's your favorite song? I could see Twist and Shout, am I right?" Sam asked me as this song continued to carry on.  
I ignored his comment because secretly I couldn't place a song to the title Twist and Shout. "I dunno, I'm not a religious fan of theirs. But Frank Sinatra and even Marvin Gaye is another story."  
"Whatta bout the King?"  
I crinkled my nose, easing the car forward inch by inch. "Of England?"  
"Of rock and roll! Elvis, you dunce."  
"Oh, now I feel daft." I shook my head, genuinely feeling a little embarrassed. "I'm even less of an Elvis fan, actually. That's because I don't keep up with his tunes, but I like his dance moves!"  
Then the car before me sped forward as this traffic _finally_ broke apart.

"Well, you got a Bonafide Elvis Presley _and_ John Lennon fan right here." He pointed to himself proudly with a big grin on his face.  
"Is he your favorite?"  
"Lennon? Aw yeah." Sam shook his head and slunk back down into his seat again as the song died down. "What about you? I could see you as a George fan."  
"Well, we do have things in common." I nodded slightly, remembering back to that "conversation" we had several days ago. George and I did seem to share similar tastes in literature and music as well as economics.  
"Or maybe you'd even fall into the clutches of Paul?" He further proposed which caused me to blush like mad. _Fall into the clutches?_  
"I don't know about that." I mumbled, switching into the furthest left lane. "He seems too..._dapper_ for me." I resisted a grin.  
"Oh, well," Sam said, peeking out the window as I made a turn onto a separate drive. "You mustn't keep up to date with the news lately."  
These words, no matter how discreetly he tried to pass off with them, caught my attention in a moment. Paul not so dapper?  
"What d'ya mean by that?"  
"The other night, he and that other fellow Tommy Roe were photographed entering a gentlemen's club."  
I almost stomped my foot on the break in the middle of the drive.  
"_What?!_"  
_Paul went to a strip club in Miami?  
_Sam was surprised by my anger as he laid a hand to my shoulder. "Damn, what is it? Yeah, he went to a strip club, what's it to you?"  
I clenched the wheel with white knuckles as I digested the information.  
I felt so embarrassed! Here I was laying these rather humiliating hints to PAUL MCCARTNEY in these letters and thinking that he could _possibly_ have the _slightest_ bit of a _lingering_ liking of me...And he goes to strip clubs.  
Damn, I should go rewrite that mail!  
"Nothing. Just shocking."  
"Eh," Sam shrugged it off, going back to doing what he was doing. "He left right after, though."  
"He left right after?" I repeated, a bit of hope revitalizing inside of me.  
"Yeah. Tom Roe stayed for hours, but Paul left like ten minutes later." Sam said. "All the girls are _crying_ about it nonetheless."  
I eased up my fierce grip on the steering wheel as I digested this new information. Well...  
Sam didn't let it go unnoticed.  
He sat up in his seat again and cocked a head to me. "I thought you weren't a fan of the Beatles or the members?"  
I managed a glance over to him to see Sam looking at me with a _'wow'_ facial expression. "You're reacting like this Paul news is affecting your personal life."  
That's when I tightened my lips together and made to keep mum about it. I didn't want anyone to bother me with Paul.  
Though in doing this, it propelled Sam to think I was giving a guilty non-response. "Almost like you know him!"  
"_What?!_" I blurted, keeping my eyes on the road and trying to blow off the topic. "That's stupid."  
The reason why I was being so secretive about my friendship with Paul is because I know people would take advantage. It's happened to me in the past, really. In a stroke of good luck, I'd get something that everyone else yearned for. So they'd all pretend to be my friend just so they could get to whatever prized possession I had. And since I never had very many friends growing up, when people _did _come up to me and were nice to me, I wouldn't complain. I thought things were turning around for me until I'd overhear a few of my "new friends" chatting about how lame they thought I was.  
Can you imagine what the girls at my job would do if they found out I was in ongoing interaction with _Paul McCartney_? I'd walk to the back room and be reminded of just how lame I am after they'd already taken me out for lunch. PLUS, if I told everyone I was becoming fast friends with him and in a week from now he's completely forgotten about me, I don't think I could take that naked exposure. I've built up some sort of social status for myself and it'd be obliterated if that were to happen. It was a pride thing.  
So therefore, I was good with just keeping it to myself for now _or_ at least that's what I wanted. It seems like Sam is about to probe it out of me, however.  
The silence that filled the air in the moments where I was caught up in my mental soliloquy, Sam had an epiphany.  
He suddenly slammed his hand against the dashboard and snapped me out of it. "What the hell! You met them!"

"_No!_" I shouted to him, shaking my head vigorously like it was the most preposterous thing I'd ever heard.

Whatever acting skills I have inside of me, please kick in right now! I was still too bashful to admit to anyone that I was lettering with Paul!

There was a pause for a moment and it seemed like my skills were enough to throw Sam off balance for a moment as he struggled to understand. "What? But yes, you did!"

I continued with the facade and luckily found myself in the neighborhood I needed to be in for this girl. "That's crazy talk! I'm just a fan, I guess."

"But you said you weren't a fan of theirs before!" He rebutted, standing strong in his argument.

"Well, I am. I'm very passionate about them." I spoke rather hurriedly and found myself panicking for the second time today.

Being around him was a little exhausting, I have to say.

I pulled onto the side of the suburb, at a home marked 42 Clements Ave. _Perfect!_

"Harper!" Sam shouted out to me as I quickly shut off the engine and unbuckled my seatbelt, making sure to grab my tote bag.

I groaned and faced him begrudgingly. "Listen Sam, I've never met them!" I lied, trying to brush it off. "But I have two sisters who both adore him and so the news that he went to a strip club is shocking."

My voice died out a little as I was reminded that Paul had actually done that. It made me feel so incredibly embarrassed all over again.

You know what I mean.

"He's such a dapper looking fellow who's actually really nice and sweet and has a lot to say that's actually rather dorky, so him being straddled by a temptress is kind of a surreal situation." I found myself babbling to my friend, losing knowledge of my words the more I droned on.

After I finished my spiel, I realized they probably didn't support my entire _'I don't know shit about the personal Paul McCartney' _allegation.

"Wait..." Sam tried to say, an utterly confused look on his face.

I didn't let him finish that thought as I locked up the car and raced to the front door of 42 Clements Ave., shouting back to him. "Now I'm in business mode!"

I didn't feel him come up behind me but I know he did as we both stood there idly at the front door just after ringing it.

Sam muttered something inaudible before the door swung open, revealing a wide grinning face of a middle-aged man and woman.

"Hello!" The lady yelled out in glee, making me flinch a little. The man beside her shouted out an identical greeting and I was already annoyed.

"Hi." I responded a few couple moments after recovering myself. "I'm Harper Mooney of the Daily Mail."

The parents both started cheering and clapping their hands, beckoning for us to come in their home.

I put on a fake smile as I cursed my job, while Sam on the other hand was actually pretty delighted by it all.

"It's so nice to meet you, we are so excited that our Lillian gets a spot in your paper! We read it every day!" The woman grinned widely at me.

Her words were actually pretty satisfying as I appreciated them. "Thank you, it's good to hear that. From what I know, your daughter seems pretty noteworthy.

"Oh!" She curled her lips into an 'O' and turned around towards the rest of the home. "Lillian, come down here sweetie!"

She turned back to us with that same big beam again, nodding her grey hair up and down. "She'll be down in a minute, make yourselves at home!"

The father appeared just then, with a pot of tea and two cups for Sam and I.

"Sit down and we'll pour you a cup!"

"Thanks!" Sam shouted out, seeming genuinely gleeful with everything that was going on.

He seemed to forget about the Paul situation earlier just like he had as we left work. I was relieved for his weakness to distraction.

"I'm Samuel, by the way. I'm Ms. Mooney's..._assistant._"

"It's nice to meet you." The father gave him a nice look as he filled our teacups with tea.

I gave him a genuine welcome as the mother started to chirp. "Lillian! Come meet the journalists from the Daily Mail!"

Just then, a girl emerged from down the stairwell with a blank look on her face.

She appeared unfazed as her squealing mother ushered her over to us as we sat on the couch.

That's when I got a good look at her, the published preteen.

Her hair was down in two tight braids on either side of her ears which were both pierced and adorned with pearls. She was wearing a plaid dress and some shiny black Mary Jane's. She wore glasses.

"Hello." The girl spoke to me, continuing to appear nonplussed by everything.

I tried to ignore it as I gave her a friendly smile. "Hi! It's nice to meet you, I'm Harper."

"I'm Lillian."

"Great name!" I continued to exaggerate my voice and sound as happy as Lillian's mother, but it didn't seem to be convincing Lillian. "I hear you've written a book!"

At this point, she appeared at a loss of interest. "Yes." Lillian spoke, bored.

I felt awkward as I laughed nervously, looking to Sam for help.

He was sitting back in the cushion, watching the uncomfortable exchange with a satisfied look on his cute face.

Once he saw my plea for help, he sat back up and broke out in a laugh. "So how about I go and take some pictures of your parents, Lillian, and Harper can start asking you questions?"

The parents both piped their agreement and I didn't see it as too awful of an idea, so I allowed him to do so.

I gave him the camera and hissed to him that if he broke it, I'd be infuriated.

He rolled his eyes to me and told me to trust him before Sam and both of Lillian's parents left the room.

Then it was just the twelve-year-old and I.

She had taken a seat at a nearby chair and had her legs crossed, gazing around the room like she had better things to do than engage in a conversation with me.

I rose my eyebrows as the display, pulling my tote bag to my lap. Why was this girl acting so disrespectful to me? Here I was, going to publish her story to a newspaper to thousands of people, and she was acting like a little prima donna.

It reminded me too closely of my sister Karen. Damn, how I didn't miss her.

"So, you're a journalist right?" Lillian asked me suddenly as Sam was taking her parents' picture outside.

I stopped shuffling my questions and bent an eyebrow, surprised she was inquiring _me_ at her interview. "Yeah."

There was silence and I looked up at Lillian's premature face to see her scrutinizing me with a crinkled nose. I was taken aback and she spoke. "Have you ever interviewed anyone famous?"

I stared at the girl for a moment and questioned myself as to whether or not she was being serious, but then I remembered this was someone who probably just got her period a month ago.

"Um," I spoke, smacking my lips together. "I guess. Not really."

She continued to look at me in a judgmental way and I daintily peeked back at her.

"Oh." Lillian said simply, pursing her lips together. "So you're not that important."

Her words instantly made my jaw drop. _Excuse me? _I was surprised at the level of attitude of sass the little girl held. If this girl worked at my office, I would publicly hate her as much as I do _Susan. _That's saying something.

Rage filled inside of me as her harsh words manifested in my mind. It reminded me far too closely of when I was twelve and the other girls would say this type of stuff to me.

I clenched my fist and shouted out something that I was certain would shut her up.

"Actually, I interviewed each of the Beatles!" My voice was dripping in arrogance, but I didn't care. Right now, this little girl needed to be put in her place.

Lillian stared at me for a long moment without the hard exterior, before she maintained the scowl again. "I don't believe you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

I bit my bottom lip, peeling my eyes at her. "Well, I don't believe that you actually wrote an entire published novel on your own."

Lillian sprouted a simper at my words as she leaned back in her chair. "Well, it's true."

"As true as my assertion."

With this, she gave me a long lingering look and I actually believed she was considering the idea. "Did you really?"

This time, I leaned back in my seat. "All four of them."

"Even Paul?"

Ugh. **_Lisa?!_**

"Especially Paul." I told the girl, a wicked closed grin growing on my face. "In fact, I still talk to Paul."

"He's in America." Lillian thought she was taking me down with her fact, but little did she know.

"We write letters. We even talk on the phone."

I was surprised in myself that I was actually confiding in someone about my secret relationship with Paul McCartney, but more so I was relieved.

It didn't feel too bad to let those words hit the air and watch someone gawk at me about it.

There were a few moments where Lillian looked astonished and at a loss for words, as if she was struggling to decide if she'd accept that I was being honest or not.

At last, she regained that sassy form that I was earlier met with as Lillian flipped her hair at me. "I don't believe you."

Her words had me grinning a whole lot more now as I shrugged my shoulders at her, speaking heedlessly. "Well, it's true."

**A/N:**

**Thanks for reading another chapter! It's so fun, right?! I'm having a lot of fun! Next chapter, Paul is coming back into the picture...and it's still Harper's point of view! Could you know what this means? Love you all, see you back real soon! 3**

**9/14/14**


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